


For the Soul of a Spymaster

by KChan88



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-04-22 04:10:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 44,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14300490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: Canon divergence. Gamble succeeds in taking Ben to Andre in season 3,and the two spymasters finally meet face to face. Ben struggles against his wounds and Andre's mental games, determined to keep the Culper Ring safe. Andre hopes he can turn Ben, searching for a way back to Peggy that doesn't involve Benedict Arnold. Caleb and Anna make their way to New York City, determined to rescue Ben.The experiences change them all, but the war and Andre's fate still await.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just as a note, this fic is fully written! But I'll be posting the following chapters over a series of days as I edit. This will be my first time writing for the Turn fandom, so I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> I also have mentions of age differences between Andre and Ben, and while I know historical Andre was only 4 years older than historical Ben Tallmadge, Andre in the show appears to be a good bit older, so I go with that here.

 Gamble’s gunshot hits Ben’s side like a burst of flame.

_Hold on_ , he tells himself. _Hold onto the horse. Hold. On._

His body doesn’t listen.

He goes sliding off the horse a short distance from Gamble’s campfire, hitting the ground with a hard, resounding thud.

_Get up. Get. Up._

His body listens this time. Half-way, at least.

He gets up from the ground, his hand going instinctively toward his wound.

_Run. Run now. You’ve been shot before. You can make it. Run._

He hasn’t been shot like _this_.

He makes his legs work, somehow. He gets going, but he can’t go fast, not like the day he escaped from Robert Rogers and the Queen’s Rangers. Blood bubbles out of the wound, spilling down his side in hot, sticky streams.

_Not fast enough. Not fast enough._

His side throbs with pain, making him shake. He trips and hits the ground again.

_Focus, Ben. Focus._

He gets up again, feeling as if he might retch. He swallows back the urge, but as soon as he gets his feet under him again a rough, unforgiving hand seizes him by the collar of his coat, yanking him back.

“Thought you could get away from me did you, Tallmadge?” Gamble asks, a dark laugh on his breath. “I admit, the trick with the horse was clever.”

Ben’s head throbs from where Gamble smacked him with the pistol, his vision blurring.

“I’m an officer,” Ben says, his words coming out slow and thick and slurred. “Protocol…”

“It’s as I said before, major.” Gambles holds his collar tighter, nearly choking him. “You aren’t in uniform. The rules are off the table. As soon as I find my horse—or someone’s horse—I’m taking you to Major André. I’m sure that will put me back in his good graces.”

Images races through Ben’s head.

Abe standing in the streets of Setauket.

_Tell Washington it’s Culper. I won’t sign the letters as anyone else._

Anna hugging him that day in Abe’s cellar, laughing after he snuck up on her.

_Anna Strong!_

Caleb lingering in the doorway on his way to retrieve Samuel—they didn’t know he was dead, yet—his smile bright and wide, a piece of it always reserved for Ben and Ben alone.

_What are brothers for, right?_

That’s the last thing Ben sees before his consciousness fades, leaving him in darkness.                                                          

* * *

 

The loud, echoing knock makes John André jump from his bed.

At least, it would if he were the sort of man prone to jumping.

He sits up fast, lighting a candle so he doesn’t fumble in the night, though the light from the city outside his window keeps the room less dark than he’d like. The knock resounds through the house again and André hears Abigail’s footsteps rushing toward the front door. He throws on his dressing gown and picks up his candle, curious as to who the visitor might be.

It wasn’t that he was surprised at being woken up in the middle of the night; in war anything was possible, but he hadn’t been expecting any news.

Was it a message from General Clinton?

His heart stops when he’s halfway down the stairs.

Was it Peggy? Had she tossed Arnold and their plan off and come to him again?

He doesn’t think he could send her away if so, Benedict Arnold and her family be damned. He shakes his head, clearing his thoughts and reaching up for the braid that was no longer there, his parting gift to Peggy.

God, he misses her.

He reaches the landing just as Abigail opens the door, Cicero shadowing her and looking anxious. Gamble’s form appears in the darkness, flanked by two men carrying…someone.

“Major André sir.” Gamble removes his hat, an odd, pleased gleam in his eyes. “I’ve brought you something.”

“You were _supposed_ to bring me the intelligence from Reverend Wakefield about the rebel camp,” André chides, stepping forward. “Or do you have some excuse? Please don’t tell me that’s him you’ve knocked unconscious? I’ve already told you I don’t approve of your more…violent methods, and we need him.”

“Wakefield is dead sir,” Gamble says, an out of place grin on his face, and André can’t tell what he’s getting at. “Killed by this man I’ve brought with me here.” He gestures at the unconscious man his comrades carry, and for the first time André realizes the man is bleeding.

He also looks quite young.

André shakes his head, sleep still tugging at him. “What? Who the devil is this that you’re bringing to my house in the dead of night?”

Gamble’s grin widens, stretching his old fencing scar. “Major Benjamin Tallmadge, sir. Otherwise known as the rebel head of intelligence.”

André’s gaze darts between the unconscious, bleeding young man and Gamble, lost for words. “ _What_?”

“Found him out in the woods in New Jersey sir,” Gamble tells him. “He’d shot Reverend Wakefield and dumped him in a pond. He was out of his uniform. The rebels must have figured out Wakefield was a spy.”

The lad’s dark gold hair falls over his rapidly paling face, and André feels a seed of doubt in his chest.

“Gamble are you damn well sure?” he asks. “He’s….well I didn’t realize Tallmadge was this young. You didn’t mention it when you came back from the rebel camp.”

“Oh it’s him sir,” Gamble answers. “I got plenty a good look at him when I was there. I couldn’t mistake him.”

André feels his sense returning to him, fully waking up now at this news and looking more closely at the injured Tallmadge, pressing two fingers against his temples. “Gamble did you _shoot_ him?”

“Had to sir,” Gamble protests. “He tried to get away from me. He’ll need tending to before you can talk to him. I found a doctor on the road to get the bullet out so I could travel with him, but it needs sewing up again.”

André shakes his head, realizing the urgency of the situation. “Bring him inside, take him upstairs, now, Cicero can show you the way to one of the guest rooms upstairs.” He offers a smile to the boy, who looks unsure.

He turns to Abigail, seeing the worry in her eyes, and it takes him a moment to realize.

Setauket. Tallmadge was from Setauket, he’d gleaned that information when he finally had the name in his possession. Abigail must have known him, at least somewhat.

André puts his hands on Abigail’s shoulders. “I need you to run for the doctor, please Abigail. I need someone to tend to Major Tallmadge so I can question him when he wakes up.”

Abigail nods, still looking uncomfortable.

“Did you know him?” André asks. “In Setauket?”

Abigail nods. “He was friends with my former mistress, growing up.” She clams up then, but André presses further, feeling guilty for pressuring her.

“What do you know about him?”

“Only a bit sir,” Abigail replies. “On a personal level I mean. He was the reverend’s son. He went to Yale and then ran off to join the army eventually, with his brother. I don’t know anything else after that. I didn’t talk with him much, but he seemed a sweet boy, when I did.”

André’s not certain if Abigail added that last bit as some kind of plea for him to go easy on Tallmadge, but the words sit heavy in his chest, as if Abigail senses his temptation to employ more than his usual tactics to make Tallmadge talk.

If he could get information out of Tallmadge. If he could find out who Culper was…

If he could _turn_ Tallmadge, if he could make the rebel spymaster his agent then perhaps…

Perhaps he wouldn’t need Benedict Arnold at all. Then Peggy could come back to him and he wouldn’t be without her, worrying with each passing day that she was going to marry that bastard Arnold, he wouldn’t be tempted by Philomena’s glances in the tavern, he wouldn’t be lonely, he wouldn’t be…so many things he is now. 

If he could turn Tallmadge and have a plant right at Washington’s side he could feed the rebels false intelligence and receive good intelligence in return. He could receive the sort of accolades Judge Shippen would desire. He could change so much, with just one man.

He could end the war.                                                        

* * *

 

Townsend tries not to hover too much when he sees John André come into the tavern looking harried. 

John André _never_ looks harried—melancholy, but never harried—which must mean something was happening. 

Something important. 

There was a desperate gleam in the man's eyes when Townsend poured him a glass of Madeira, and André only barely spared him a smile as General Clinton came in. Townsend goes over to a nearby table, taking his time cleaning it off and listening closely to Clinton and André's whispers. 

“We can't hang him if he didn't have any papers on him, not right away, at least,” Clinton's saying, not paying Townsend any mind at all. “But since he was in plain clothes in neutral territory I can use that as my excuse to delay sending word to Washington. I could say we were trying to verify who he was for certain. It would be an excuse to keep him longer or refuse to hand him over, if Washington proposed an exchange. Besides that, he was caught killing one of ours outside the confines of battle. An assassination, essentially. Of a reverend, no less, so if he doesn’t give us what we wish and we determine his…intentions were insincere, we could make a case for execution, eventually. Washington will have to know soon in any case, but I can give you a few days before we have to send word. Gamble did do his job well this time, didn’t he? Impressive after that…bloody business with Sackett. Good intelligence. Bad from in killing the man.”

Townsend runs the rag over the table a few more times than needed. Who were they talking about? 

“Tallmadge is young,” André answers, lowering his voice even further. “Smart, I grant. Very smart. We still don't know who the Culper from those letters Gamble stole is, or if he has any other spies. He must, if he was smart enough to find someone like that. There must be others.”

Townsend forces himself to keep cleaning, moving over to another nearby table so they don't suspect. 

_Keep calm, Robert. Keep. Calm._

They had Tallmadge. Woodhull never said the name of the spymaster, but that Brewster fellow had when he showed up in a redcoat uniform, teaching him how the invisible ink worked and giving him the code book.

_711, John Bolton,_ Brewster said, clear affection in his voice. _That’s Major Benjamin Tallmadge. He’s in charge._

This was very, very bad. This could compromise the entire ring, not to mention that Tallmadge's life was in danger. This had implications for the war, as a whole.

_This could have implications for you_ , a voice whispers inside his head. _If he suspects you…_

He thinks of what his father would tell him to do, knowing the answer before he thinks too hard on it.

His father would tell him to hear what he could and get the information sent on.

He told himself he would do this.

_What would Woodhull say?_

_Woodhull wouldn’t hesitate._

_Are you listening to Abraham Woodhull?_

_Apparently so._

“But he may break easier because of that,” André continues. “He's still green. He’s talented in the field—he got the best of Robert Rogers, which is more than plenty can say—but this is a different game. If we could not only get information out of him...”

Townsend sees that almost mad gleam in André's eyes again, feeling unsettled. There had been murmurs in the tavern that André wasn’t himself lately, but Townsend hadn’t known him before, so he wasn’t sure what the difference _was_ , only that it seemed to owe itself to the absence of a woman André loved. He’d seen André sketching in the tavern before, sitting alone until someone approached him. Townsend caught a quick glance of what he was sketching one day, seeing the outlines of a woman with a very complicated hairstyle before André clapped the book shut.

“If I could turn him...” André continues. “…if I could make him our agent we wouldn't need Arnold at all. We could turn the tide of this war. We could end it.” 

General Clinton smiles, looking indulgent. “Ambitious, John. I admit to the cleverness of it. Tallmadge is usually at Washington’s side they say, and if we could plant fake intelligence, all the better.” He pauses, surveying André as if he’s thinking something and not saying it aloud. “You said he was shot?”

Townsend moves calmly away from the table, but not out of earshot.

He needs to go. Now. He has to go to Setauket and tell Woodhull. This couldn’t wait for a signal in the Gazette, especially not if the British were delaying the report of Tallmadge’s capture. If the Brewster fellow could sneak into York City to try and break Woodhull out of prison, Townsend doubts he’ll have any trouble sneaking into John André’s house.

Rivington comes out then, talking to some of the officers but within earshot of the conversation.

André nods. “He’ll live. He’s a bit feverish but nothing deadly, he’s just been unconscious. I had a surgeon tend to him and I’m hoping he’ll wake up soon. Extra sentries outside the house wouldn’t be amiss. I’ll keep him there. I don’t think the jail will do, for this.”

Townsend makes himself busy cleaning the bar, looking up again when André calls out to him.

“A bit more madeira if you don’t mind, Mr. Townsend.” André smiles when Townsend brings a fresh bottle.

Townsend can’t help but feel keenly that there are good men on both sides of the war—even if one side was wrong—and that as little as he knows about Tallmadge personally, two of them were about to go up against one another, spymaster versus spymaster.

“You can keep the bottle if you like, major,” Townsend says, nodding at General Clinton. “I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you to Mr. Rivington for the rest of the afternoon, as I’ve taken leave.”

That at least, was true. He had been planning to visit his father. But he had to go somewhere else, now.

“Where are you off to?” André asks, and Townsend feels his more rational voices screaming at him.

_He’s caught you._

_No he hasn’t._

_He might._

_You have to do this Robert. It’s what’s right._

“Just a visit with my father in Oyster Bay,” Townsend answers, doing his best to keep his voice and his hand steady as if nothing was the matter at all. “I don’t like to leave him alone too long.”

Rivington hears him, approaching with his usual overloud voice. “Off to see your father then Robbie?”

Townsend does his best not to narrow his eyes at the name. “I am, if there’s nothing else?”

“No, nothing nothing.” Rivington claps Townsend on the shoulder, looking at André. “This man here is such a Papa’s boy, it seems.”

André nods, smiling again with only half the usual energy.

A few minutes later Townsend walks out of the tavern.

He almost never runs.

Today, he takes flight.                                              

* * *

 

Abe blinks several times when he thinks he sees Robert Townsend riding up to his farm.

Well, what was left of his farm, anyway.

He blinks again.

No, that really _was_ Robert Townsend.

Abe clutches the letter from Anna in his hand, having been already half-poised to rush to the sound to stop her from leaving when he saw Townsend riding up.

Hewlett nearly marrying Anna and Robert Townsend showing up in Setauket were two unexpected things that a few weeks ago he never would have considered at all, let alone have happen in one day.

“What are you doing here?” Abe hisses as Townsend gets down from his horse with more urgency than he’s ever seen Townsend do _anything._ “How did you find my farm?”

Townsend eyes the remains and the partially built new structure with skepticism as if to say _is this a farm, really?_

“Someone in town pointed me the right way. I said I was an old friend of yours from King’s College,” Townsend says. “But you need to listen to me Woodhull, right now.”

“Can it wait until I get back from the dead drop?” Abe asks. “I have….urgent business there.”

“Woodhull.” Townsend sounds urgent and almost afraid now, looking as if he doesn’t want to impart whatever news he possesses. He touches Abe’s shoulder lightly, and it’s this more than anything, that makes Abe worry. “I need you to listen.”

Abe tilts his head, some of his agitation fading as worry takes its place. “What, Townsend? What is it?”

“Tallmadge has been captured,” Townsend says without any more hesitation. “And sent to the house of John André.”

Anna’s letter slips from Abe’s hand, landing on the grass below.

This could end the ring, but more importantly, more devastatingly, this could end _Ben_.

Memories of their shared childhood rush through Abe’s mind, full of laughter and good-natured arguments and late nights laying in the Brewster apple orchard under the stars. They screech to a halt and he sees Ben that day in the Patriot jail, believing in Abe when Abe didn’t believe in himself.

_I remember who you are, even if you’ve forgotten._

“We’ve got to get to Frog’s Point,” Abe tells Townsend, seizing him by the wrist. “Now. We’ve got to go now. Caleb and Anna will be there and we need to catch them before they leave. Caleb is…Caleb is the only one who can get Ben out of there.”

God, Caleb.

Caleb would be worried sick when he heard this. Caleb would want to take down the whole world to get Ben back.

Abe leaps onto his horse and Townsend onto his, racing toward the dead drop point where Anna said she was meant to meet Caleb in her letter. The wind screams in Abe’s ears as they ride along.

_Hewlett knew he was a spy._

_Anna was leaving Setauket._

_John André had Ben._

Hewlett, at least, might no longer be a danger.

André capturing Ben certainly was.

They reach Frog’s Point just as Caleb’s about to push off in his boat.

“Caleb!” Abe shouts, jumping off his horse as Townsend dismounts in a more dignified manner behind him. “Caleb, please wait!”

Anna remains with her back to him in the boat, but Caleb pauses, looking at Anna and back at Abe before raising his eyebrows in disapproval in a magnificent impression of Ben.

Something about it makes Abe’s heart beat harder.

“Look here now Woody,” Caleb calls out into the cool night air. “I’m taking Annie to camp. That’s the end of it so don’t argue with me.” Confusion mars Caleb’s face when he spots Townsend. “Townsend? What the devil are you doing here?”

“Caleb.” Abe doesn’t want to tell them him but he _has_ to, and Anna turns around at the clear sound of desperation in his voice. “Both of you please just…please get out of the boat, I need to tell you something.”

“If Hewlett’s turned you in we’ll just get Mary and Thomas and get right out of here with you too Abe,” Caleb tells him, the irritation fading instantly from his face and morphing into worry. “We’ll figure it out. We’ll keep you safe.”

Abe shakes his head, ruffling his hat back and forth on his head, anxious. “That’s not it.”

“Abe, _what_?” Anna asks. “If this is some kind of stall tactic, I…” she looks over at Townsend, seeming to understand that it can’t be, because otherwise Townsend wouldn’t be here. Neither of them seem to consider the news Abe has to impart.

“John André has Ben.” Abe forces the words out, watching Anna’s eyes widen in shock.

A pause. A silence. Anxiety coats the air and Abe looks at his friends for a response.

“What?” Caleb says, sounding more snappish than Abe’s ever heard him, as if he thinks Abe might be playing some sort of game to hide the real news.

Caleb scrambles out of the boat now, seizing Abe’s collar with more force than Abe expects. They’d always wrestled with each other—whether in jest or in anger—but this is different, this is Caleb grabbing desperately at Abe’s collar to convince himself what he just heard isn’t true.

“I said Major John _André_ has Ben,” Abe emphasizes.

Caleb breathes hard, looking half-undone. “This ain’t no joke, Woody, and that’s not funny. What’s really going on?”

“He’s telling the truth.” Townsend steps up, looking very much as if he feels he’s stepping on a private family moment. “That’s why I’m here. I heard it from André himself while he was talking to General Clinton.”

Caleb lets go of Abe, staring at them before looking around the dark woods as if searching for a different story among the trees.

As if searching for Ben.

Then he swings his fist at a tree, the bark spattering as he shakes his hand, sucking in a breath.

“Shite!” he shouts, his voice echoing into the air. “Shite,” he continues more softly.

“Caleb,” Anna says, the only one daring enough to touch his shoulder. “Caleb, don’t hurt yourself.”

Caleb doesn’t shrug away from Anna’s touch, but turns his head, focusing in on Townsend. “Who took him? Do you know?”

“A man named Gamble,” Townsend answers, looking even more solemn than usual. “And they said Tallmadge had…killed a reverend?”

“Of course it was Gamble, that bastard,” Caleb mutters “If Washington had damn well listened we could have kept Gamble in custody.”

“Ben killed a reverend?” Abe asks, flabbergasted. He couldn’t judge anyone, but Ben’s father was a minister and Abe can only imagine what that might feel like for him.

It also didn’t make sense.

“The reverend was a spy,” Caleb explains, removing his hat and running his hands over his face as if he might cry, breathing in and out furiously. “I’ll kill Gamble I swear to god, I’ll kill….”

“Caleb.” Anna repeats his name, putting her hands on both his shoulders now. “Don’t focus on who you’re going to kill, right now. We need to get to camp so we can figure out how to get Ben back. Washington has to know.”

Abe watches Caleb meet Anna’s eyes, seeing him relent and return her slight smile. Abe’s almost jealous of the easiness between them, but everything with Anna was at least half his own fault, anyway.

“I’m no help to you right now,” Abe says. “But….” he looks up at Anna and Caleb, wishing desperately he could go with them. “Please let me know when you get Ben back.”

Caleb does smile at him now. “I will, Woody. Don’t you worry. And you did help, by bringing Townsend here.” Caleb nods at Townsend, who gives him a friendly nod of the head.

Abe’s surprised when Caleb pulls him into a hasty bear hug. After a beat Abe returns the gesture, only realizing how much he needed one when he got it.

“I knew you were the person who could get him back.” Abe hears the tears in his own voice, the effects of the war tearing away his defenses.

André had _Ben_.

Ben, who started the ring in the first place.

Ben was his family.

Ben could have been a teacher. Ben could have been safe. But Ben was too brave for that. He could never stand back and let things happen around him without taking part.

“I’ll get him back.” Caleb pulls away, looking determined. “I don’t care what it takes.”

Abe feels Anna’s hand brush his shoulder and he returns the gesture, because no matter what’s happened between them this is their family in danger. It’s been their family since Abe remembers having memories. Abe recalls that day in the barn when Ben and Caleb came to Setauket.

_I’m not a soldier in your army major._

Even then Ben hadn’t pushed Abe away, only stood there and told him softly about Samuel’s death on the Jersey.

Truth be told, Abe’s always looked up to Ben even if Ben would blush and tell him not to, and he doesn’t know what to do knowing Ben is in this kind of danger.

“Now my good sir,” Caleb says, directing his words at Townsend, but Abe knows he’s feigning calm. “Tell me everything you heard, you right sneaky bastard.”

* * *

 

_Ben dreams of the seashore and Setauket and Abe and Anna and Caleb and Samuel._

_He stands in the water, his long hair dripping down onto his shoulders, childish laughter bursting into the air. He’s watching Anna flick water at Abe in amusement, though before he knows it someone’s tackling him gregariously into the water, creating a loud, dramatic splash._

_“Caleb!” he exclaims, a laugh cutting into the seriousness. “Stop that!”_

_“What?” Caleb grins, helping him up. “Afraid you’ll get wet? You’re already wet, Benny boy.”_

_Samuel runs past them, kicking up a wave of water that feels nice on the hot, humid summer day. Samuel winks as he passes by, his dark gold hair the same shade as Ben’s gleaming in the sunlight, his green eyes looking merry. He runs up to them, slinging an arm around Ben’s shoulders, and Ben find the usual comfort in his older brother’s touch._

_“What’s that verse from Psalms Father likes?” Samuel asks._

_“Father likes many verses from Psalms,” Ben points out. “You’ll have to be more specific.”_

_“Ah!” Samuel exclaims, clearly remembering. “I remember. It’s ‘O LORD God of hosts, who is mighty as you are, O LORD, with your faithfulness all around you? You rule the raging of the sea; when its waves rise, you still them.’ That’s quite a good one I think. Though I hope the sea doesn’t rage while we’re here.” Samuel glances over at Anna and Abe, who are still splashing each other. “Think I’ll go over there and help Abe out a bit, Anna’s too spirited to let him win that fight. They’ll get married one day, you know, I can already tell..” Samuel raises one eyebrow, looking at Ben fondly. “Just like I’ll be a reverend and you’ll be a teacher, you bookish boy.” He grins at Caleb, who nods in agreement. “And Caleb here will be a feared pirate!”_

_Caleb whoops, shaking his fist in the air. Ben laughs until his sides are sore, happiness overtaking every inch of him._

_Then, something strange starts happening._

_The seawater starts turning red._

_Bright, blood red._

_“What’s happening?” Ben asks, but no one answers him._

_The red water starts dragging Samuel out to sea, and Ben dives in deeper, swimming after him, his legs and arms going as fast as they can, but he can’t move any further, he can’t go anywhere._

_“Samuel!” Ben cries out, hearing his own higher-pitched twelve-year-old voice. “Wait!”_

_“He’s gone Ben,” Caleb whispers. “He’s gone.”_

_“He’s not gone!” Ben shouts as Samuel sinks beneath the tide of red. “Samuel!”_

_The red water doesn’t answer back, and when Ben looks at his hands he sees red drops flowing down the crevices of his skin, thick and warm and sticky._

_Samuel!_ Ben hears himself saying Samuel’s name as he eases out of the dream. He doesn't open his eyes yet, his head pounding with a distant pain. 

Why did his head hurt? 

His stomach sinks, and then he remembers. 

Gamble. Gamble struck him in the head with a pistol. 

Wakefield. He'd shot Wakefield. Gamble found him in the woods, putting his body in the pond. 

The sharp pain in his side reminds him that Gamble also shot him. 

He'd tried to get away. That's right. On the horse. 

And had taken him to...

Ben's eyes fly open, and he's met with the face of....

Of....

He doesn't know this face, but then he remembers. 

_As soon as I find my horse—or someone's horse—I'm taking you to Major André._

The man in front of him leans forward in his chair, putting down what looks like a teacup. “Major John André at your service, Major Tallmadge.” 

Ben fails the first time he tries sitting up, biting his lip against a whimper of pain. He tries again a second time, grasping the headboard of the bed, his hand flying to his side when it answers back with a throb of sharp agony. Sweat beads at his forehead even as he shivers.

A fever. That must be why the sharp, vivid dream that left his hands shaking.

“You've been shot, I'm sorry to say,” André says, his eyes glittering with interest. “The bullet's been taken out and the wound sewn up, but you've been running a bit of a fever. I would have liked to make your acquaintance under better circumstances. I  _have_  been eager to meet you.” 

Ben still doesn't answer, feeling his face and noticing at least a day or two's worth of stubble. He feels his side, wincing when he touches his ribs. There must be a bruise from where he fell off the horse. A nasty one, if the soreness is any indication.

_Think, Ben. Think. Keep calm_. 

“You've been out for….” He pauses, as if deciding something. “A while.” André gestures at the teapot on the small table in the corner of the room. “Tea?” 

“No thank you.” Ben hears how hoarse his voice sounds, and he  _is_ thirsty. “Where am I?” 

“In my home in York City,” André answers, pouring the tea anyway. “Come now, drink. My housemaid Abigail has been getting some broth in you, but that won't do. There's no need for you to be weak on your feet.”

Ben looks at him skeptically, fresh rage over Sackett rushing through him even in his exhaustion, hot and overpowering.

André smiles, and Ben isn’t sure how to take it. “It’s not drugged, I promise,” André tells him. “Please major, drink.”

Ben nods, accepting the tea when André brings it over, drinking it because he’s already weak from his injuries and he doesn’t want to make that any worse, because he _does_ feel shaky.

Ben sips the tea carefully, testing for any strange taste and remembering Gamble’s words about vanishing him when André was done. There’s nothing odd in the tea and Ben supposes André wouldn’t vanish him here when they hadn’t even spoken.

Whatever vanishing him meant.

“What’s to be done with me?” Ben asks, stony and walled off. He wouldn’t give up anything to this man if he could help it. Risking his own life was one thing, risking his friends’ lives was something else entirely, and he would go down before he willingly told André anything that would put them at risk.

“You’re to stay here, for now,” André replies, sitting back down in his chair. “I’ll question you tomorrow perhaps, if you’re better and more of a right mind.”

André surveys Ben as if he’s a looking at a chessboard or an equation, trying to ascertain his next move, or perhaps determine what exactly Ben was worth to him.

“With respect sir.” Ben puts the teacup down on the table next to the bed, doing his best to contain his temper. “You should now that I won’t tell you anything.”

“Hmmm,” André responds vaguely. “We’re just going to talk, major. We’ll see what arises from the conversation.”

“Am I to be tried as a spy?” Ben presses. “Does General Washington know I’m in captivity?”

“General Washington will know when he needs to know.” André attempts a smile again, but it falls flat this time, and it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Ben winces when his wound gives a sharp tug on his consciousness, forcing himself to focus. “Protocol…”

Gamble’s words in the woods cut him off, resounding in his head.

_You’re out of your uniform…_

From what he knew of Major André’s reputation, Ben didn’t think he had to fear physical repercussions as he would with someone like Simcoe. At least, he didn’t think so. It was the mental games he feared more than anything else. Of what he might accidentally give away when he was in pain or exhausted. Of what André might read into from a look or word or the lack of an answer.

The he remembers Gamble’s words again.

_He’ll have me vanish you…_

He remembers Sackett’s awful, sudden, violent death, committed by a man who worked for André and yet André himself wasn’t known for violence of the physical sort.

Which was true? Who was this man, really?

“You were found in plainclothes, Major Tallmadge,” André says, frowning slightly now. “I’m afraid we’ll be operating…a bit outside those protocols for now.”

Ben swallows, staring André down. “You didn’t answer my first question.”

“Ah.” André raises his eyebrows, taking another sip of his tea and prolonging the answer. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to leave you in limbo there. We won’t be trying you as a spy. At least, not yet. We’ll see how things progress.”

_Not yet._

Ben feels black creeping in around the edges of his vision like a threat. He needs to maintain control. He needs to notice things. He needs to…

_Stay awake. Stay. Awake._

“I should let you rest, major.” André rises from his chair, giving Ben another once over and looking something like impressed, but Ben doesn’t like the light of intrigue in his eyes. “I’ll see you again soon.”

André exits the room without another word, no doubt leaving Ben wondering on purpose. Ben couldn’t deny the man’s talent for the business they found themselves in, and he finds it strange to find such a kinship and such a strong antipathy for one person. A person who likely understood well the burdens of the job _and_ the person was responsible for the death of Sackett all at once, not to mention the one who likely sent Robert Rogers after Ben’s dragoon unit on the information of Charles Lee. A person who represented a very personal danger to him now.

The door opens again and the woman who must be Abigail enters, shutting it tight behind her. He hasn’t seen her in years but it couldn’t be anyone else, and he has to stop himself for thanking her out loud for all the work she’s done for them, unsure of what can and cannot be heard inside the walls of this house.

He coughs, shivering against what must be another wave of oncoming fever. “Abigail.” He greets her, hoping his weak smile will imply his gratitude.

“Major Tallmadge,” she replies, busying herself with laying down a pitcher of water. She gestures at him to lay back, dabbing at his head with a damp cloth, and he’s so exhausted he can’t protest. “You should sleep.”

Ben’s eyes grow heavy, Abigail’s presence the only soothing thing in this foreign, dangerous situation, and he doesn’t even know her very well. It’s not really the danger he fears; he’s around that all the time. It’s how vulnerable this situation makes him. How vulnerable it makes the ring and everything they’ve worked for.

“Thank you for looking after me,” Ben answers, keeping his eyes closed, feeling consciousness slowly leaving him.

He feels Abigail lean closer, whispering in his ear. “I’m sure your friends will do their best to come for you, when they find out.” Her words are so soft they’re barely audible. They also speak to Ben’s greatest fear.

That in trying to save him, something will happen to his friends. To Abe or to Anna.

To Caleb.

But how would they even know, if Washington didn’t? Caleb and the dragoons would certainly notice if he was too long gone from camp, but how would they know where he was until word was sent?

Ben both yearns to see Caleb breaking through the door and dreads it simultaneously.

He couldn’t bear it something happened to one of his friends because of him.

If he’d only gotten a little bit further away on that horse.

He remembers the night before Sackett’s death when he was frustrated with the situation about Gamble—who he thought was called Sutherland, then—and Shanks, while also worrying over the letter from King George making it safely back to France with the French secret intelligence officer.

_What if it’s the bloody-back who’s lying?_ Caleb said, sparking an idea in Ben’s mind. Caleb, who always managed to help him sort out his brain when it was tied up in impossible, tangled knots, sometimes of his own making.

_Wait,_ Ben said before Caleb could go to lead the decoy to Baltimore. Every time Caleb left, Ben worried he might not return. Caleb was exceptional with his particular skillset, but it didn’t mean Ben didn’t worry. Riding into battle was different, because Ben could still see his friend then. Battle wasn’t predictable, but it was familiar. When Caleb rode off into the night and Ben couldn’t follow, he always felt just a little bit helpless.

They’d embraced after that, giving Ben a brief feeling of safety in a most unsafe moment, with the worst yet to come of André’s schemes.

Caleb had a knack for making him feel centered even on the bad days, and he tries to remember that now as he sits in the house of the enemy.

He can do this.

He can _do_ this.

His world goes black again.                                          

* * *

 

“Would you like to write a letter to Nathaniel Tallmadge and tell him his only remaining child was killed in British captivity because you were waiting for them to show their manners?” 

“LIEUTENANT BREWSTER!”

All things considered, Caleb thinks, this wasn't the most auspicious way for Anna to meet George Washington for the first time. Anna leaves one hand on his shoulder, and it's the only thing keeping him anchored or sane or chained to reality at all. 

André has Ben. 

Caleb could scarcely bear it when Abe said those words aloud. He stood and listened to all the details Townsend could give him, feeling enraged and numb all at once.

He has to get Ben back. He has to get him back fast. That's the only thing that matters. Damn the ring. Damn the whole bloody _war_. 

Ben was what mattered. 

Ben himself surely wouldn't agree, but that didn't matter. Caleb was used to talking Ben Tallmadge out of his own head. 

“Sir,” Caleb continues, lowering his voice. “All due respect, but I don't care how we found out. I care that we get Ben back, yeah? You're asking me to wait to hear from the British themselves when you said you were angry they hadn't notified you and don’t plan to for a while. You want to trust them? They found him in plainclothes. I can't risk that. He’s also been shot, and they’re the ones tending to him? I don’t trust a single thing about it.”

Washington sighs, rubbing his temples. His Virginia drawl is threaded through with irritation, which can’t be a good sign for Caleb’s case. “There are protocols, lieutenant. New York is a fortress and I won’t have you storming in recklessly, do you hear me? Get yourself under control. Acting rashly won’t help the situation.”

Caleb grasps the edge of the table, his Irish accent thicker in his urgency. “Ben was out there in those woods and out of his uniform because _you_ requested he take care of Wakefield. And the man who _captured_ Ben is free because you didn’t believe him when he told you Gamble was bad news. You…”

“Lieutenant Brewster that’s _enough_!” Washington cuts Caleb off, looking a bit bereft now. “Major Tallmadge….” He stops again. Caleb knows he’s sensitive to comments that he gets too many of his soldiers killed, but he doesn’t care about that right now, he cares about getting Ben back, Washington’s feeling and rules be damned.

“…Benjamin is a valued member of this army,” Washington continues. “And I will do everything in my power to return him here. I want him safe back in camp as much as you do.”

Caleb blinks, feeling Anna press his shoulder again. “All due respect,” he repeats. “But you don't, sir.” 

Washington sighs, and Caleb takes the opportunity to keep talking. “I snuck into New York harbor in one of Sackett’s inventions to rescue Culper from jail. I got in and I got out, and I’m still here. This won’t be different.”

Washington stares at him, almost looking impressed but swallowing back the urge. “You did _what_?”

Caleb throws his hands up in the air. “Look. Either I resign now, and you lose me, and I go do this, or you keep me in your army and our spy ring, and I go do this. It’s your choice, sir. I’m doing it either way.”

Washington sighs again, but Caleb senses him relenting.

“All right. But I don’t want to know what you are doing and how you are doing it, just ask whoever you need for what you need.” Washington looks over at Anna, more warmth in his expression. “I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances Mrs. Strong. I do very much appreciate your work for us. You are welcome in camp, but if you go with Lieutenant Brewster I cannot guarantee your safety.”

“Thank you sir,” Anna replies, still looking a bit awestruck. “I’m glad to do whatever I can to help the cause. But I…well I trust Lieutenant Brewster with my safety. And Be…Major Tallmadge would do the same for me, were I in his place.”

Washington nods, seemingly knowing that his arguments won’t work, but he does call out once more as they two of them make for the exit.

“Lieutenant Brewster.”

Caleb turns around, feeling annoyed until he sees the concern on Washington’s face, betraying the feelings of worry about Ben’s condition he won’t express.

“If this goes ill and it affects any exchange the British might have offered to give Major Tallmadge back to us,” Washington continues, going stone faced again. “There will be little I can do even if I would of course want to. I caution you to remember that.”

Caleb nods and steps out of the tent, Anna following behind. It’s night and most of the men are around the fires or minding their own business, and Caleb’s grateful for it because he starts shaking just slightly once he’s outside. He’d hoped pure rage would take over every other feeling, but his heart wasn’t letting that happen.

“We’ll get him back,” Anna whispers, and Caleb’s grateful things collided so that she could be here now.

“Damn right we will Annie.” Caleb clenches his fist. “Right now we need to tend to the plan.”

Anna quirks one eyebrow, almost smiling. “And what’s that, dare I ask?”

“I’m going to be a farmer.” Caleb grins. “And you’re going to be my wife. But first I’ll need a few of Ben’s dragoons. I can trust them. Then I need to go to Sackett’s old tent.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caleb and Anna devise a scheme to sneak into New York with the help of Ben's dragoons. André interrogates Ben, hoping to find out about Culper and turn Ben double. Ben holds fast, desperate to keep all his secrets contained and his friends safe even as a fever from his gunshot wound takes hold and André digs deep into mind.

Ben wakes up again, finding himself in the same bedroom.

He has no idea how much time has passed, but it doesn’t feel like as much time as before.

André’s there again, standing by the window and looking out as if lost in thought, melancholy washing across his face. What did he look so sad about? Ben studies him, thinking he looks just like Shanks had described him. Then, through his hazy, pain-soaked thoughts, Ben realizes something.

The braid.

Shanks mentioned a long, slender braid.

It was gone.

Why was it gone?

That seemed like such a personal, particular thing to do away with haphazardly.

Ben stores the information away for later as André looks over, realizing he’s awake.

“Feeling better Major Tallmadge?” André asks, flipping out the edges of his coat before sitting down in the chair. It’s moved closer to Ben’s bed, moving another space forward on the metaphorical chessboard. “You’re still a bit feverish, Abigail says, but not as badly as before.”

Ben looks down at his gunshot wound, a throb of pain pulsating through his body. “I appreciate Abigail looking after me,” he answers, avoiding the question. “She’s a good woman, from what I remember in Setauket.”

Ben takes in the room around him more thoroughly than before. It’s largely bare—done on purpose, he suspects—but the few things around him are elegant, speaking to a particular sort of lifestyle André clearly liked to cultivate. His clothing was immaculate as well, with nothing out of place.

It all felt very…done on purpose.

Perhaps that was why he might never suspect the spies in their ring: a cabbage farmer, a former slave, an inn-keeper, a courier who was maybe half a pirate, and a signal agent who was a woman from a small town, all managed by a minster’s son.

The British weren’t likely to choose a single one of them as a spy.

André smiles, and Ben senses the other man’s affection toward Abigail is genuine. “She is,” André replies. “She won’t let me teach her how to read, but her lad Cicero is quite good. I let him practice with my letters, sometimes.”

“You’re kind to teach him.” Ben shifts in the bed, wincing, knowing full well Abigail can read, but she was smart to hide that. He’d wondered what sort of situation Abigail might find herself in while working John André, and he’s glad to know it’s not a terrible one for her on the day to day, especially not if André had allowed Cicero to come live with them. It’s a kindness he hadn’t considered of a man who would send a man like Gamble into their camp.

André gazes at him, crossing his legs and folding one hand over his knee. “Pray, who is Samuel, Major Tallmadge?”

Ben stops himself from jumping in surprise, settling for clenching his fist that remains under the blankets. His head feels cloudy from pain and lack of any real sustenance, and he blinks, trying to clear the fog in his mind. He looks at André, saying nothing.

André clears his throat, though Ben notices his knuckles pop white in irritation. “Well, I already know _who_ he is, so I suppose that’s not my question really. I was only hoping you’d tell me yourself. He’s your older brother. A… _former_ prisoner on the Jersey wasn’t he?”

Ben grasps the blankets, anger coursing through him, though he keeps his voice as calm as he can. The Continental Army knew that Samuel was dead, but as far as the British knew he’d left with Ben in the woods that night after the parlay with Robert Rogers. “Why are you asking me this?”

He knows why. André suspects something.

“Because you were saying his name when you were dreaming, earlier,” André tells him. He surveys Ben again, that intrigue from earlier growing as if Ben presents a challenge André has a strong interest in winning.  “He must be important to you. What happened to him?”

“He was returned during a prisoner exchange.” The lie tastes bitter on Ben’s tongue because Samuel is _dead_ , and he’s barely had time to even process that truth no matter the time that’s passed. “That should be common knowledge.”

“Hmm.” André’s non-committal noise sounds like he doesn’t believe that’s the full truth. “Yes, you got the better of Robert Rogers then, didn’t you? Quite a feat. And it wasn’t the first time. He came in telling me about the young dragoon who killed one of his men and got away in a Queen’s Ranger’s uniform. I didn’t know that was you until later, of course.” André _almost_ grins, and there’s something condescending, something oddly _indulgent_ about it that Ben doesn’t like. “Impressive.”

Ben looks André directly in the eyes, his voice going low, and he cannot quite extinguish the threat it holds. “He underestimated me. More than once.”

André chuckles, and it sounds odd in the tense, empty room. “His mistake. So did Samuel….retire from the army?”

“He was in no condition to return to anything after the way he was treated on the Jersey.” Ben’s voice is very nearly a snarl, and he chides himself for the open display of emotion.

_Calm down, Ben. Don’t give him anything. Don’t give him an inch._

“Hmm,” André says again. “It is a nasty place. It’s no way to treat anyone, really.”

Ben thinks André actually sounds genuine there, but he doesn’t have time to contemplate the idea before André speaks again.

“You’ve given up a lot in this war, haven’t you?” André asks, and Ben senses the beginning of something happening in André’s tone. An attempt to make him talk.  

And then possibly an attempt to make him turn.

“Your brother’s…health,” André continues. “Your own life plans, all spoiled by the war. You went to Yale, didn’t you? I’m sure you hadn’t intended on being a soldier.”

“I’m afraid the British hung the man who was part of my inspiration to join the army.” Ben’s tone goes cold, and André raises his eyebrows. “So I don’t think going to Yale automatically means someone won’t join the army for a just cause.”

André’s brows furrow, understanding passing across his face. “Nathan Hale. He was your friend.”

Ben doesn’t answer, looking away from André. He’ll never forget hearing about what happened to Nathan, his hands shaking uncontrollably when he received the letter and feeling as if he might retch.

_This is war,_ he tried to tell himself. _War. People die. Every day. You have no right to mourn the ones in your own life more than others do. He knew what he was doing. He was brave. He was passionate. He died for something he believed in._

_He was twenty-one years old,_ another voice said. _His whole life ahead of him._ _He was your friend_. _Of course you’re going to mourn him more._

He sat with Caleb at the campfire that night, passing the bottle of Madeira back and forth. Caleb had never gotten to meet Nathan, but he knew what he meant to Ben.

“Are you telling me you wouldn’t have done the same thing had the positions been reversed?” André questions, and Ben looks back over.

“Don’t accuse me of being willing to do the same thing your side began,” Ben answers, anger rushing into his voice. He’s weak from his ordeal even if he wishes he wasn’t. “I don’t know what we would have done had we caught a spy first. But now I do.”

Perhaps something he said threw André off—or perhaps it’s simply a tactic, Ben doesn’t know—because André gets up abruptly from his chair, walking toward the door.

“I’ll have Abigail bring you something to eat, major,” André says. “We’ll have another chat this evening.”

Ben watches André go, hearing the footfalls of his boots echoing down the hallway. Ben looks out the window, seeing the sun set over York City, casting shadows into his room.

He realizes he has no idea what day it is, or how long he’s been here.

He also has no idea what might happen next.                                                                

* * *

 

 “I need the two sturdiest you got, sergeant,” Caleb says, surveying the selection of the dragoons’ horses. “And that old cart you keep too, that we used to haul crops last winter. It’s got a space that could work as a false bottom.”

“Is that what you want to use to bring the major back from York City?” Sergeant Collins asks, looking skeptical. “You’re going to hide him there?”

“I ain’t got that far now have I?” Caleb replies, irritated. He backs off at the contrite look on the sergeant’s face. “I’ll figure it out,” he corrects himself. “Now don’t go telling half the camp about Ben, all right? Ben trusts you and so do I, and I don’t like to be proven wrong about that.”

Sergeant Collins, twists his fingers, looking anxious. “Well, I hate to say it, lieutenant, but….half the camp heard you shouting at General Washington. I don’t know that it’s…much of a secret, at this point.”

“Oh.” Caleb crosses his arms over his chest. Washington deserved to be shouted at, Caleb didn’t care who he was. The man wanted to wait to hear from the British, as if there was time for bullshit protocols when Ben was in the belly of the beast. He knew Washington cared, but he needed to get Ben out of there _now_. Not later. “Well. Anyway, which are the two best you’ve got?”

“Major Tallmadge’s horse, actually,” Collins answers. “And mine. I’m glad to lend them both to you. Though you should know that in the cart it will take you a couple of days to get to York City. You wouldn’t be able to go as fast as you would just riding them. Why can’t you do that?”

Caleb pats one of the mentioned horses as another dragoon brings both forward. “Cause they’re suspicious of lone men going into the city. So Anna here’s going to help me out and pretend to be my wife.” He gestures at his approaching friend, who carries two letters in her hand. “It’ll be easier that way.”

“And the pass into the city?” Collins asks. “What are you doing for that? Do you need a forgery? Our man Anderson is good at those, if you need.”

Caleb laughs at the admission, clapping Collins on the back. “Thank you for the offer, but Annie’s got it handled. She had an old letter from Major Hewlett and forged a pass on that old machine of Jefferson’s Sackett kept.”

Anna hands him the forged pass and he studies it, the handwriting almost exactly the same as the original letter. It wasn’t as fascinating as the submersible Caleb sailed into New York harbor to rescue Abe—or not, in the end—but it served them damn well here.

“You’re a quick study Annie,” Caleb tells her. “This is perfect.”

“Whatever you need, let us know,” Collins says to Caleb. “We’ll get the horses hooked up to the cart for you.” Collins smiles at him, nervous. “We’d all be losing a good man if something happened to Major Tallmadge. We all admire him a great deal, and I hope he knows that. Tell him for me we’ll be relieved to have him back.”

Caleb nods, suddenly unable to form words. Collins walks away to tend to the horses and the cart, leaving Caleb and Anna temporarily alone.

“That bastard,” Caleb mutters. “Going out and getting captured. I’ll kill him myself when I get him back.” Caleb wipes his eyes on his sleeve, annoyed that he can’t just be constantly enraged over the situation, because that was easier than being upset.

“Caleb,” Anna whispers, putting an arm around his shoulders, and he doesn’t really care if anyone sees him broken up over this, he only cares because being broken up over it means he can’t think straight.

“He could’ve let someone else take Wakefield out, couldn’t he?” Caleb asks Anna, not really looking for an answer. “But _no_ , he had to do it himself. He had to take care of it like he tries to take care of everything in the whole damn world. If Washington had damn well _listened_ about Gamble he wouldn’t have been out there free to snag Ben at all. He’s a pompous ass, sometimes. At least when Ben’s an ass he knows it and apologizes. Washington wouldn’t stoop to that, would he?”

Anna tilts her head, looking him in the eye. “He’s the commander in chief of the army.”

“I don’t care what he’s the commander in chief of Annie,” Caleb answers. “Sometimes he’s wrong, and he needs to be better about admitting it when it puts people’s lives in danger. Especially Ben’s life. Telling me he wants Ben back _as much as I do_. Horse shite.”

“He’s upset too,” Anna replies, squeezing his shoulder. “I think he just can’t allow himself to feel that or he’ll feel….everything.”

Caleb huffs, not answering.

“We’ll get him back, Caleb,” Anna whispers. “We will.”

“Damn right will.” Caleb glances over the dragoons attaching the horses to the cart, anxious to get going. “If I have to kill John André myself.”

That wasn’t of course, really his plan. His plan involved sneaking in as quietly as possible, getting Ben, and hightailing it like hell out of York City.

Still, it made him feel better to say it.

Silence rests between them for a moment, words Caleb doesn’t entirely mean to say rushing out of his mouth, the presence of his old friend making him more openly vulnerable than he’d be with anyone else in camp.

“I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to him, Annie.” Caleb speaks the words softly and without feigned calm—just pure, unadulterated honesty. “I can’t even think about it. Followed him into this damned army when I could have hassled the bloody backs as a privateer. I didn’t expect _this_ to happen. But he couldn’t ever settle for being average, damn him.”

Anna laughs, ruffling Caleb’s hair. “I swear we’ll get him back, Caleb. We’re the ones who can.”

Caleb smiles at her, feeling a tiny bit better. He wasn’t happy that Anna’s life had fallen apart, but he was glad to have her here. He wants to ask her just how things happened between her and Abe, but he has to save that for later. “You’re right Annie. I’m glad to have you here, yeah?”

Anna winks at him. “I know. Let’s go get Ben back, shall we?”

“Damn right,” Caleb says. “Now to figure out what we’re going to put in the cart to make them believe we’re farmers? What would someone like me grow?”

Anna stifles her laugh, a tired light in her eyes. “Cabbage?                                                                                                                                      

* * *

 

Ben wakes up a third time in an entirely different room.

Somehow they moved him without even stirring him from sleep.

Had someone given him liquor? Or Laudanum for the gunshot wound? 

He holds his wound as he sits up, jolting as his body protests. Someone's also changed his shirt, he realizes, though his breeches are still dirty and stained with blood, and he doesn't know what's become of his coat.

Or his shoes. He only seems to have stockings, now.

He swipes at his forehead. More sweat, and another broken fever, he supposes. He spies a small pitcher of water and a single glass, reaching for it in desperation, his mouth painfully bone dry. He gulps down the water, gasping for breath when he drinks too fast. 

Where _was_ he?

A cellar, of some sort, or otherwise some kind of lower room. It was impossibly dark down here aside from one lone candle. There's a single, low-lying window, but it's blocked from the outside with some kind of object, no doubt to prevent light from getting in. 

And to prevent him from getting any ideas of getting out. 

He feels trapped down here, and vulnerable in his half-dressed and wounded state. He feels his face, the stubble growing sharper. It must have been a few days since he was captured, though he doesn't know how many, exactly. 

“That braid,” he whispers to himself, focusing on the small detail. “Where was the braid?” 

The door opens and someone comes down the stairs with slow, deliberate footsteps, as if they couldn't bother to hurry. André's face appears again, looking less polite and more determined as he surveys Ben. 

“Major Tallmadge, you're awake,” André says. He holds up a coil of rope. “I'm afraid I'm going to have to secure your wrists while we talk this time. Kindly cooperate.”

Ben can't truly do anything _but_ cooperate because even if he could overpower André in his wounded state, where would he go, without help? New York was a fortress. If he wasn't wounded then perhaps, but he was barely able to sit up with terrible pain he was in. There were also no doubt sentries outside all the doors, and he’s weaponless.

He'd have to bide his time for any kind of escape attempt, and unless someone comes for him…

Well he doubts he could manage it.

If only he’d gotten away on that horse. Just a touch further, and he might have found safe harbor.

He holds out his wrists in silence, the skin still sore from when Gamble tied him up and slung him over the horse. 

André pulls a chair over himself. “I’m afraid I can’t take my chances with someone who escaped from an entire party of Queen’s Ranger’s if you’re feeling even the slightest bit better. You understand.”

Ben looks back at André, impassive. “How many days have I been here, Major André?”

André leans back in the chair, folding his hands over his knee again and looking as if they’re having a chat over tea. The entire situation feels again like a chess game.

André’s move.

Then his own.

André’s.

His own.

Ben can _certainly_ play chess.

He just needs to focus. He needs to focus beyond the pain and the exhaustion and the anxiety.

He can do this.

“I’ll tell you that if you tell me about Culper.”

Ben scoffs. “You should know better than to think I’d do that Major André. I’m not giving Culper up willingly.”

“Culper is the master stroke, isn’t he?” André asks. “Genius of you, to choose whoever he is.”

Ben frowns. Was this the tack he was tacking? Flattery of his intelligence? It had to be more. André was smarter than that.

“Your ruse to get into our camp was well thought out,” Ben replies, stopping himself from flexing his fingers in anxiety.

_Don’t let him get to you. Move from any mention of Culper. Deflect._

“If more ruthless than I expected,” Ben continues, unable to keep the anger entirely out of his voice. “I figured it out. But a second too late to save a defenseless man you had _your_ man murder.”

This was of course, only partly true. Ben had been suspicious of Gamble earlier, but Washington wouldn’t listen.

But he can’t tell André that. He can’t tell André he sometimes still has trouble forgiving Washington for it, even if he looks up to the commander at the same time.

“You shot an old man in the woods.” André eyes Ben with disdain, and Ben can't tell if it's put on or if it's real, a recurring trouble with the man in front of him. “A defenseless old reverend and you gave him a summary execution so Washington wouldn’t have to explain to his army how he let a spy burrow so deep into his camp. I’m frankly impressed you figured it out, but I’m not sure it’s your place to throw stones.” 

“Wakefield was delivering information so our camp could be attacked and he was traveling in no man’s land. He took advantage of men’s respect for his position. He knew their secrets. He knew what he was getting into.” Ben swallows, willing his heart to ease its racing. He wasn’t going to admit directly that he killed Wakefield, even if they both knew the truth. Killing Wakefield had been harder than expected; he’d killed people in battle before, certainly, but an old man in the woods was a different matter, spy or no.

And a minister. A minister like his father.

Still, his father would have never used his role like that. Ben was a spymaster, but using a minister, a man who kept secrets, a man who guided, a man who listened, as a spy, was a step he couldn’t take.

Still, there hadn’t been a choice about killing him.

There hadn’t been a choice.

André frowns. “I didn't intend for that to happen to Mr. Sackett. I intended for Gamble to steal your documents, only. I chided him harshly for his violence, I assure you.”

“You knew who you sent in.” Ben shakes his head, unimpressed. “What you intended doesn't matter.”

André does look sincerely contrite now, and Ben’s not sure how to take that. “I am sorry for how all of that happened, Major Tallmadge. It’s not who I am.”

André looks at him as if he’s desperate for Ben to believe him, a strange gleam in his eyes as he speaks. He reaches up as if he’s going to fiddle with the braid that’s no longer there, and Ben thinks again that he removed it for a reason. Because of something.

Or someone.

Ben can't make himself speak so he only nods, his eyes catching on the floor. 

“But my point is that General Clinton would never use me as a common assassin,” André continues. “He values me more than that. Washington should value _you_ more than that.”

“You don't dirty your hands,” Ben very nearly snarls, reigning it in when André’s eyes go dark with anger. “But you hire people willing to do so. Robert Rogers. Captain Simcoe. Gamble. What does that say about you, sir?” 

“It says I can recognize talents for things,” André responds. “Your own father is a minister, isn't he? It’s cruel of Washington to ask a minister's son to do that job.” 

Ben clenches his fist, tamping down his feelings about his own tumultuous relationship with Washington so none of it shows in his face. Things has been smoother between them after everything that happened with Charles Lee at Monmouth. Ben respected Washington and wished for that respect in return—which seemed to be restored, now—but Washington was more difficult than the man Ben imagined before he served at his side directly. Ben was always grateful for the chance Washington took on him and the trust and belief the general showed when he made him head of intelligence, but Ben was also willing to tell Washington when he was wrong, and that sometimes led to conflict.

In any case Ben doesn’t need André sensing any tumult in their relationship. He doesn’t want André pulling on that thread, or any thread at all.

When Ben doesn’t give into any of the prodding about Washington André changes course, clearly believing he’s planted whatever seeds he needs.

“Care to tell me anything about any other spies in your ring?” André asks. “I’m supposing the answer is no.”

Ben thinks of Townsend and the courage it took for him to take this step. He thinks of Abigail in this very house, showing incredible bravery and a knack for the job. He thinks of Anna living under a daily lie in Setauket. There are so many people he’s responsible for—including his dragoons—people whose lives he has sworn to protect. But his mind keeps going back to Abe and Anna and Caleb as he sits in this dark room with John André, and suddenly he misses them fiercely, even if he wouldn’t wish them to share this fate with him for all the world.

“No sir.”

“Hmm.” André closes his eyes, wiggling his fingers as if searching for something in the air. “What was the name I saw in your documents? I of course have no way of knowing which are aliases and which are real unless I look into them but…” he pauses, thinking again. “Brewster. That was one of the names. Is he a part of your ring?”

Ben keeps absolutely, utterly still, meeting André’s eyes so he doesn’t seem afraid.

But the mention of Caleb’s name _does_ scare him. It wouldn’t be as catastrophic as the revelation of Abe as Culper because Caleb was in the army; he was expected to be doing whatever work he was assigned. It did mean that if the British ever found Caleb and realized who he was while he was carrying papers brought from the dead drop, they could likely try him as a spy.

In this situation, Ben’s silence might be a yes, but saying anything else could lead him to a web he hasn’t had time to weave. André scoots his chair forward abruptly, the wood scraping against the floor, and Ben jumps in surprise. The small movement sends pain washing over him, a hand going to his bullet wound again.

“Don’t lie to me, Major Tallmadge,” André whispers. “It’s not advisable.”

Ben looks André dead in the eye again, pretending as if the mention of Caleb’s name doesn’t make his hands want to shake. “I haven’t said a word, Major André.”

André scowls, looking more dangerous than before, a bite of impatience in his voice. “When Gamble stole those documents from your camp, I looked into the names I could. Brewster stood out as one that seemed real as opposed to an alias. A lieutenant in the army, isn’t he?”

Ben still doesn’t break André’s gaze, scarcely daring to even blink. He’d practiced various things in his head before, knowing he’d need them if he ever got caught. There was not much point in lying about something that was easily checked, and his silence only lets André know that Caleb matters. “He’s half a privateer, but yes.”

He doesn’t give any other information, keeping the threads of his responses short and manageable. His head pounds, the pain from Gamble’s pistol smacking him returning full force under duress.

“Hmmm.” André taps one finger against his lips twice, hanging onto the words. “Does he happen to hail from Setauket as well?”

Ben twitches involuntarily, cursing his body for the slight movement.

Too close. This was _too close_. It wasn’t the same as any discovery of Culper or Culper Jr. or Abigail—they’d opted not to give Caleb an alias in the first place—but Ben doesn’t want John André anywhere _near_ Caleb. He doesn’t want Caleb in danger more than he already was on a daily basis. He doesn’t want André pulling on any sort of thread that the spy ring originated in Setauket.

André doesn’t miss the twitch, a satisfied smile sliding across his face.

“Hmmm,” He repeats. “He matters to you, doesn’t he? I’m just not sure how. Did you perhaps use his real name and an alias as a feint to make me think he wasn’t, perhaps, Culper himself?”

_What?_

Ben just keeps staring back at André, a touch relieved that André’s gone down an incorrect path. “I believe you may think too much of me, sir.”

He gives neither a yes nor a no, because he’s not sure which way is best to go.

André laughs, and were this another situation it might almost sound friendly, yet Ben doesn’t miss the odd, desperate gleam in the other man’s eyes. That he wanted to win the war was certain, but there was something else there. Something personal.

What was it?

“No, I don’t think so,” André says. “You are one of the smartest men in this war, Major Tallmadge. I just have to figure out what web you’ve woven. I did say I wouldn’t underestimate you. Robert Rogers mistook you for a rash, courageous fool, a talented soldier and nothing more. But you aren’t rash and you certainly aren’t a fool, are you, Benjamin?”

_Benjamin._ André thought he was getting somewhere, didn’t he?

André rises up from the chair, pulling a knife from inside his coat pocket. Ben jumps, tensing. Surely André wouldn’t…

“I’m not going to hurt you Major Tallmadge,” André assures him. “I’m simply cutting the rope.” He does so, the knife cutting easily through Ben’s bonds. “Rest up. I’ll be returning.”

André leaves, exiting the room slowly as if trying to make Ben’s anxiety linger. Ben rests his head in his hands after that, all the pain in various parts of his body melting into one giant ache.

What if he went after Caleb? What if he sent someone into camp while Ben wasn’t there? What if…what if…

_Caleb will come here and you know it,_ a voice says in the back of his mind. _You know he will. If he can get in, he’ll show up at this very house._

_I don’t want him to_ , Ben thinks. _It’s dangerous. And he shouldn’t push his luck. He already got in and out of New York once._

_You’d do the same for him,_ another voice argues. _And you know it._

Ben can’t argue with himself there.

He’d move heaven and earth if Caleb ever found himself behind enemy lines. He’d face desertion or treason charges or whatever it took because the only thing more important to him than the cause at hand _was_ his friends, Caleb in particular.

He lays down on the small cot in the dark, curling up on the side that’s less sore and falling into a hard, disturbed sleep.

* * *

 

André finds himself with a guest when he reaches the landing.

“General Clinton’s here to see you sir,” Abigail tells him, emerging from the sitting room, no doubt having served the general tea. “I…” she twists her fingers, looking anxious. “Should I take anything to Major Tallmadge?”

André shakes his head. “He looked about to fall asleep when I left him. We’ll take him something to eat, later.”

She nods, still looking tense, eyeing him in a way that makes him suspect she’s worried about how he’ll treat Tallmadge, and the idea stings him more than he bargained for.

“I know this is an unusual situation,” André says without really meaning to speak. “But know that my interrogation methods do not involve any kind of physical torture. I wouldn’t want you to think that of me.”

“I don’t, sir,” Abigail replies, looking uncomfortable.

He does not mention the mental duress Tallmadge might endure, or the fact that his life was in limbo.

He suspects Abigail already knows those things, but she couldn’t understand the intricacies of what he did. She couldn’t.

Could she?

He offers her a version of his usual smile before going back toward the sitting room and General Clinton.

He might have something.

“Sir.” André shuts the door to the sitting room behind him as he enters. “I wasn’t expecting you.

Clinton takes a sip of his tea before responding. “I wanted to come check on your progress with Tallmadge. I’m running out of time for an appropriate timeframe to write Washington. If you have something, I could be persuaded to extend a day or two.”

“I do.” André sits down, pouring himself a cup of tea, his heart racing more than he likes. “I would beg you to extend the letter. I know it’s difficult…”

“Did he give you information on who Culper is?” Clinton asks, crossing his arms over his chest after he puts his teacup down.

“No,” André admits. “But I may have an idea who it is, anyway.  He’s more stubborn than I expected, but I sense I’ve gotten a foothold in his mind. I think it bothers him that Washington would do something as crass as use him as an assassin. I sense some weakness in that relationship. I plan to exploit it to turn him. And to find out about Culper.”

Clinton frowns, but André sees the indulgence in his eyes. “Hmm. I can give you another two days. After that I’ll have to send word of his capture, even if it’s only to say we’re trying him as a spy or are refusing to give him up. I can say he wouldn’t admit his identity, or something of the sort. But if the roles were reversed and you had fallen into their hands, I’d be furious. We need to consider the implications of Washington’s wrath.” Clinton pauses, thinking. “And if you can’t turn him, I’ll include the threat of a trial in my correspondence to Washington. We can see what he’d offer for him to avoid that outcome. And if nothing sufficient, well…” Clinton gestures vaguely in the air, the implication clear.

He had to do this. He _could_ do this. Tallmadge was hard to break, but it didn’t mean he was unbreakable.

Every man broke given the right motivation, and André didn’t have to lay a finger on him to accomplish that. He wasn’t that scoundrel Rogers, and certainly not Simcoe, who was half a monster when he wasn’t tamed and put to good use.

He wasn’t like them, and he’d sworn he never would be.

He had his finger on the pulse of Tallmadge’s weaknesses. One appeared to be that Brewster fellow, and another his relationship with Washington. He hadn’t said anything about the second, but André saw his expression tighten when he mentioned Wakefield’s killing.

If he could do this he would be lauded. Tallmadge wasn’t a general but his position gave him access to vital information and he was clearly one of Washington’s favorites. Turning Tallmadge would earn him the acclaim and the position he needed to be enough for Peggy’s father so she wouldn’t have to shun her family to marry him. He could end the war if he did this.

It would work.

It would.

But was there enough time? Would two days be sufficient? Could he break Tallmadge before Clinton was forced to write Washington, which would leave them with a potential push for an exchange or a possible execution? Clinton might be interested in making an example of Tallmadge if André couldn’t get him to talk soon enough.

It would be bigger than Nathan Hale, if a court convicted Tallmadge of spying.

“I can do it sir,” André says. “I’m sure of it.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tension between Ben and André reaches a breaking point. Caleb and Anna make their way through the check-points, racing toward New York and toward Ben. Gamble goes rogue, and Ben pays the price. The two spymasters come to an uneasy understanding of one another, the war simmering like a living thing between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a general warning for some violence in this chapter. It's not terribly graphic (I used the warning just in case, but it's not terrible) but there's mentions of blood and broken ribs.

_Ben dreams again._

_He’s in the Continental camp, freshly fallen snow spread across the ground and a single rope hanging from a hastily built gallows._

_Who was being hanged today?_

_He looks at his own hands bound in front of him, realizing he’s not wearing his uniform._

_Him._

_It was him._

_They were hanging him._

_Why?_

_That didn’t make any sense…that didn’t…_

_“Traitor!” one man calls out, and Ben whips around, seeing one of his own dragoons staring him down._

_“I’m not…” Ben tries, but two men come in on other side of him, seizing his arms hard and without mercy. “I’m not a traitor, please listen.”_

_Washington appears in front of him as if he’d been there all the time, his gaze harsh and unforgiving, holding the same pocket-watch he had the day they watched the execution of the soldier who’d stolen from a civilian. Ben remembers General Scott eyeing him with disdain, and Ben wondered if he might be next._

_Now he was._

_“Sir, no.” Ben tries stepping forward, prevented by the two soldiers holding him, no friendly faces anywhere._

_Caleb. Where was Caleb?_

_“You gave up Culper to John André,” Washington tells him, his eyes flashing with rage. “And then you turned double, didn’t you? Culper is dead because of you. So is Brewster.”_

_No. No no no. Please god, no._

_He wouldn’t have....no. No._

_“Culper Jr. is lucky he got out in time. So is 355,” Washington continues. “They’re lucky they didn’t fall to the machinations of a weak coward who gave every last one of them up. I don’t know what I was thinking when I entrusted the intelligence of the Continental army to a man who was scarcely more than a boy playing soldier. And playing spy even more.”_

_“General Washington,” Ben pleads. “I didn’t do that. I wouldn’t, I…”_

_Washington turns away._

_No one listens._

_Ben finds himself with a rope around his neck soon after, everything going black before they push the cart out from under him._

He wakes up dry heaving.

He coughs and coughs and coughs, acid creeping up his throat as nausea overtakes him with an overwhelming power. He reaches for the chamber pot left beneath the bed, retching into it with a force that makes his sore ribs scream in protest.

It’s still painfully dark in the room.

What time is it? What day?

He swipes at his brow, finding his shirt soaked through with sweat.

Another fever.

He reaches for the pitcher of water, pulling back before his fingers grasp the handle.

How could he be certain André wasn’t drugging him with something tasteless? He still feels ill and weak and shaky.

_You’re wounded_ , the rational part of his mind reminds him.

_Is it just that?_ Another voice asks.

He pours himself a tiny glass of water, just enough to rinse out his mouth. The door to the room opens and he hears footsteps coming down the stairs, less pointed and forceful than André’s. Abigail appears at the bottom, carrying a tray of bread and cheese.

“Major Tallmadge,” she says, eyeing him with concern. “I brought you something to eat. Are you all right?”

Ben nods, but she seems to discern his lie without him saying anything.

“Are you sure?” she presses. “You should eat this, you look awfully pale.”

“I’m all right Abigail, thank you,” Ben answers. He can’t ask her if André’s drugging him because he can’t put that sort of burden on her. It was too dangerous. The wrong look, the wrong word between them might make André suspect. “Perhaps later.”

She hesitates before reaching out and patting his shoulder, the kind touch almost making him flinch.

They can’t say anything more to one another, so she bids him once more to eat before going back upstairs, casting another worried glance in his direction. Ben stares at the bread and cheese, his body desperate for food. He hasn’t had more than some broth, tea, and a few bits of bread and cheese…yesterday? This morning? He has no way of knowing.

But he can’t quite make himself reach for the food in front of him, even if his body’s desperate for it.

The door opens again, André’s now familiar footsteps coming down at a quicker pace than normal as if driven by some sort of frenzied energy.

“Major Tallamadge.” André nods, holding out a new coil of rope. “I believe you know what to do.”

Ben narrows his eyes, pulling his hands away even if he knows it’s unwise.

“Come now,” André says, the air of a lecture in his voice. “Don’t make this difficult.”

André steps forward again and Ben pushes him away with the tiny amount of strength he can muster, which isn’t much. He realizes the foolishness of it immediately, but he feels exhausted and less sharp than before, pain thrumming through his entire body.

He can’t be weak. He can’t he can’t he _can’t_.

_Focus Ben. Focus._

André raises his eyebrows, surprised.

“Major Tallmadge.” Anger threads through André’s voice, his eyes flashing with a burst of temper. “Lieutenant Gamble is waiting upstairs should he hear any signs of trouble down here. There are also sentries outside the door and the window. Resisting me will only harm you. I don’t suggest trying that again.”

When Ben doesn’t move André seizes his wrists, tying the rope around the already irritated skin.

“What day is it, Major André?” Ben asks.

André only looks back, impassive.

“What _time_?” Ben presses, hating the desperation in his voice.

_Stop, Ben. Don’t let him see you’re upset. Don’t let him see anything._

“Tell me one thing I want to know…” André hangs onto the words, sitting down in the single chair, pulling it forward to Ben’s cot. “And I’ll give you the time.”

Ben takes a deep breath, the air feeling cold in his chest. “I’m not bargaining with you, sir.”

André sighs, sounding annoyed, but Ben catches him grasping his breeches in anxiety.

Why was he so uneasy?

Why did he seem so…desperate?

Was he under some sort of time limit?

Ben understood why getting information out of him—or especially turning him—would be of the utmost value to André. But this felt different. This felt personal. André hadn’t lost his temper, but the small cracks in his mask were growing more visible.

“I suspect you _will_ bargain with me when you’ve been down here long enough.” André sits up even straighter in his chair, folding his hands.

Ben grits his teeth. “You can’t keep me down here forever. It’s not what’s done.”

André makes a non-committal noise and Ben remembers Gamble’s words again.

_I suspect when Major André’s done with you he’ll have me vanish you._

Would André do that?

Ben isn’t sure.

“I'm not telling you _anything_ , Major André. If you're going to hold the threat of hanging me as a spy over my head, know for certain that won't frighten me into telling you. Nor will the threat of letting me waste away down here. My life is not worth endangering those who have entrusted their lives to me. Surely you understand that.” Ben speaks candidly and with more emotion than he wishes, the words rushing out before he really has a chance to process them. The idea that any member of the ring could be endangered by a single thing he said here today frightened him more than most anything else, because he’d agreed to protect them all. He’d talked Abe into it himself, and Abe in turn had recruited Townsend. Ben helped convince Anna to have Abigail continue her work as she could, and he’d written to her in his own hand. He’d pulled Caleb in too, speaking in an excited whisper one night in camp about their old friend the cabbage farmer, and what a brilliant spy he’d make.

He couldn’t break. Not now. Not today. He won’t do it. He only hopes he doesn’t give anything away in a less subtle manner.

André looks at him almost with softness, the gaze making Ben feel unsettled and unsure, but he holds his ground. 

“I do,” André nearly whispers. “I do, Major Tallmadge.” André pauses, studying him, and Ben thinks now that André doesn’t believe he’ll hold fast, and something about it steels him further. “It would be clever, you know, if Brewster were Culper. Hiding him among the ranks of the army while still picking someone who doesn’t quite fit the mold of a soldier. Less discipline…drilled into his movements as the uh… _half a privateer_ , you mentioned.” André stops again, and Ben remembers Sackett’s words the first night they. “But I’d like to talk about something else right now. I’d like to talk about General Washington.”

“What about him?” Ben snaps, clearly surprising André, who raises his eyebrows again, but he doesn’t give in, though he does curl his hand into a fist, a flash of anger passing across his face.

“You must have been furious with him for trusting Charles Lee after he gave over the intelligence that got your entire dragoon unit killed,” André says, and Ben feels his blood grow hot, rushing like fire through his veins.

André wanted to play like this, did he?

He’ll never forget that day in the woods, the Queen’s Ranger’s jumping out at them from behind the trees as if from nowhere, blood spurting and spilling onto the ground, his men dead around him almost before he realized what was happening. He remembers killing the Ranger with his own bayonet, pulling the uniform on and feeling the bullet graze him as he ran away, his men’s faces haunting every step he took. He remembers Caleb nearly pushing over the sentries outside General Scott’s tent and rushing toward him, clearly having believed him dead.

_Tallboy, you idiot_ , Caleb whispered. _You stupid prick, making me think you were dead._

“Charles Lee is a vainglorious bastard,” Ben spits. “But you knew that, didn’t you? You took strong advantage of it. Not a bad strategy.”

André frowns, looking confused at the tone and the commendation all at once. “I’d warn you not to take that tone with me Major Tallmadge.”

“You’re not playing by the rules sir,” Ben argues. “I’ll take any tone I like in that case.”

“We’re spies.” André keeps his voice even, but Ben sees him biting the inside of his cheek. “There’s aren’t rules. We operate in the dark, don’t we? You ambushed a British unit just like Rogers ambushed you. You were foolish enough to leave a Queen’s Ranger’s hat at the scene. What purpose did that serve, might I ask? Other than to satisfy your own ego.”

Ben leans forward, looking André in the eyes. “To send the message that you don’t attack the continental army without an answer.”

André leans forward as well, mimicking Ben’s movement, and Ben feels the anger and the strange understanding and the war bubbling up and spilling over into the room.

“It seems like it does,” André answers. “If Washington kept him on for so long after.”

Ben doesn’t answer, and André takes this as a sign of permission to continue. He rises from his chair, walking slowly around the room, knowing Ben can’t follow in his condition.

A power play.

“You were at Monmouth, weren’t you?” André asks, tilting his head in intrigue. “Now that I think on it I must have seen you leading a group of dragoons into battle. Only, I didn’t know who I was looking at. Fascinating, isn’t it?”

Ben just stares at him.

“Washington made use of you that day,” André continues. “He sees fit to do what he wishes, doesn’t he? Sending out a reverend’s son to kill a reverend with no care for the danger it put him in. Ignoring the advice you no doubt gave him about General Lee until he saw fit, or otherwise not letting you know what he was doing. It’s not how a commanding officer should treat his spymaster.”

‘Major André,” Ben answers, calming himself. “I’m not going to turn my back on General Washington. You’re wasting your time.”

André spins on his heel, and Ben sees that desperate gleam in his eyes again.

“But don't you see?” André asks him. “You have a talent for this. A talent that would be more appreciated by the British army that it currently is by George Washington.” 

Ben sighs, pressing his fingernails into his palms, the only thing he can really do with his hands bound. “Major André, there isn't a point in...”

“He's not going to help you.” André steps closer, almost sounding sorry, and Ben can’t tell if it’s real or if it’s fake. “We sent a man under flag of truce to impart the news of your capture, with terms. He didn't accept them. He wouldn't give back the officers we requested for you. He said it was too steep an exchange.”

Ben waits a beat before answering.

It wasn’t true.

That _couldn’t_ be true.

Here in this dark room with no sense of time or day, with no light and fear of eating a morsel, his wounds aching and his whole body sore, a part of his mind whispers dark words.

… _is_ it true?

 No. No. This is what André wanted. No.

Ben swallows back. “I don't believe you.” 

André leans forward, and he’s so close Ben’s tempted to push him away again. “He doesn't care about you Major Tallmadge. You aren't worth it to him. He has the spies, he can find a new spymaster to handle them, can't he? You were caught. You were compromised. And he doesn't care if we hang you or if we lock you up for the war’s duration or if we leave you right where you are. He doesn’t _care_ , major.”

Ben thinks back to the night after the battle at Monmouth, and uncovering the plot to assassinate Washington. He thinks of the tears in Washington’s eyes, and the gratitude and fear in his whispered Virginia drawl.

_Thank you, Benjamin._

“Washington wouldn’t leave me here if he could help it,” Ben says, pushing down the dark thoughts in his head. “I know that.”

André smirks, and there’s something unstable in it. “Do you?”

“Yes. I suppose you haven’t even really told him yet, have you?” Ben asks. “You’re only trying to make me think you have.”

_My friends will come for me,_ Ben wants to say, but he doesn’t because he wants his friends to come and he doesn’t all at once. Even if Washington’s hands were tied, they’d find a way.

He doesn’t want them in danger. Not for him.

_You’d risk everything for them,_ that voice from earlier says. _Everything._ _You can’t tell them not to do the same._

André doesn’t answer, sitting back down in his chair, the room falling quiet for a moment. André eyes the untouched plate of food, looking back over at Ben in question.

“Do you think I’m drugging you, Major Tallmadge?” André asks.

Ben takes a deep breath. “I have no proof you aren’t.”

“You have no proof I am, either.”

Ben narrows his eyes. “I don’t see fit to trust my enemy who has locked me in a dark room with no sense of time or day. Someone who has an associate who threatened to vanish me.”

André leans forward, folding his hands and tapping two fingers over his lips. “We don’t have to be enemies, you know.”

Ben folds his fingers in toward his palms.

Here it comes.

“We could be….friends,” André continues with the air of a suggestion. “You’re smart, Major Tallmadge. You clearly have an eye for this. If you worked for me, if you worked as a double agent I...”

Ben digs his nails so deep into his palms it’s painful. “Major André…”

André holds up a hand. “Let me finish. I would appreciate you. So would General Clinton. More than General Washington ever could. You wouldn’t be fighting for a lost cause. You’d be fighting _for_ something.”

“I am fighting _for_ something,” Ben replies, hearing his own voice reverberate with feeling. “I’m fighting for my country. For the ability to decide for ourselves and not bowing to the wishes of a mad king. I’m fighting for my brother. I’m fighting for my father who had his church stolen from him and turned into a stable and garrison because he _dared_ speak his mind from his own pulpit. I’m fighting for my home. I’m fighting for the people I _love_.”

André flinches at the ferocious passion in the last few words Ben speaks, reaching up again unconsciously for the braid that’s no longer there.

It was a small thing, but that braid mattered.

Had he cut it off to give to someone he loved? Or in memory of them?

Ben glances down at André’s hands, seeing no wedding ring.

Was there a woman André loved? Is that where the braid went? Had he lost her?

“And is Culper one of those people you care about?” André asks. “Is that why you’re so _protective_ , major?”

Ben doesn’t answer, staring at André for long enough to make the other man uncomfortable.

“What?” André snaps, shorter than he’s been before.

“Where’s your braid?” Ben asks. “When Shanks described you to me, he said you had a long, slender braid. Seems like such a specific thing to…”

“I am not the one being interrogated Major Tallmadge.” André stands up from his chair, looking abruptly furious.

“…mention,” Ben finishes, daring. “What happened to it?”

André glares at him, fire breaking through the cold in his eyes.

The braid _was_ something.

“You are out of bounds sir,” André says, half a snarl in his voice.

Ben scoffs. “You’ve kept me locked down here in the dark, wounded and sick, for days. I don’t think I’m the one who’s out of bounds.” Ben pauses, locking eyes with André, neither of them releasing each other’s gaze and very nearly refusing to blink. “What are you fighting for, Major André? Or should I ask who?”

André’s open palm connects hard with Ben’s cheek in a blur of motion, and Ben releases an involuntary exclamation of surprise, the sudden pain adding to the throb of the rest of his body.

With his hands bound Ben can’t reach out and touch his cheek, so he sits there blinking in shock instead. André stares at his hand, his gaze flitting over to Ben and back again, opening his mouth and closing it as if attempting to form some kind of apology that doesn’t come. The abrupt rage recedes from his face, leaving him paler than before.

“I…let…” André trips over his words, a far cry from the usual smooth ease of his speech, looking very much as if his mind has gone temporarily blank. “Let me undo your bonds, Major Tallmadge.”

Ben doesn’t argue, focusing on watching the knife cut through the ropes, feeling an overwhelming sense of embarrassment that André seems to share, neither of them knowing what to say or what to do. Once his hands are free Ben reaches up instinctively for his cheek, the skin stinging from the hard slap, accidentally meeting André’s eyes at the same time.

“I am overtired and I am sure you are as well.” André clears his throat, gesturing over at the formerly mentioned plate of bread and cheese. “You should eat. I assure you I held no ill intent in having Abigail bring it down to you.”

André runs a hand through his hair as he walks away without another word, looking truly flustered for the first time since Ben’s been here. The door closes behind him and Ben hears him whispering something—no doubt to Gamble—and then nothing at all, left alone again in the silence.

The braid _meant_ something.

But what can he do with that information here in this dark room?

_You broke in_ , he tells himself. _Maybe that will get him to back off._

It also might get him sent to be tried as a spy, or sent to a prison ship, or any number of things, but it would get him out of here where he was vulnerable, where his secrets and his friends and everything he fought for was unsafe. One wrong move, one wrong word, one movement under the influence of pain and exhaustion might give something away. He doesn’t have to divulge secrets for André to read details among the haziness of his mind.

The longer he stays, the more he fears that.

He lays back down on the cot, pulling the thin blanket over him and praying for a dreamless sleep. He thinks of his father sitting with him and Samuel in the weeks after their mother died, reading comforting scripture verses to them in whispers, his hand smoothing back their hair until both of them fell asleep.

Ben holds on tight to the memory before letting sleep claim him.                                                                

* * *

 

 

They make it through the first two checkpoints with ease.

The third takes such a long time Caleb’s tempted to reach for his hidden pistol and shoot the damn bloody-backs dead.

But that won’t do.

That won’t save Ben, no matter how much it might make him feel better.

Washington quietly gave them the scarce few coins he had on hand, and along with some of Caleb and Anna’s own money they’d purchased a portion of a nearby Patriot farmer’s crop—cabbage, as it happened—to take with them to New York, just enough to fill their cart. They’d taken one of Ben’s dragoons along as well, an older man named Williams who was trustworthy and eager to help Ben. Williams was to pose as their farm hand helping them take the crop into the city to sell.

“You’re going to sell this crop in the city?” the redcoat asks, and it takes every ounce of self-control Caleb possess not to explode.

“Yes sir,” he answers, Anna smiling brightly beside him.

“We have an army contact, Colonel Cooke?” Anna adds, smiling even wider, and this seems to ease the soldier’s suspicions a little. “We’re from Setauket. He owns some interests there. That’s how we met him.”

Caleb has to stop himself from grinning at just how _good_ Anna is at this, settling for gazing at her with what he hopes looks like spousal affection.

“Well…” The soldier looks down at the forged pass from Major Hewlett again, glancing back up again and looking more forgiving. “I suppose this will do. But we’ll need to check your cart if you don’t mind, just to be sure.”

“No problem at all,” Anna replies, smiling again. “Check whatever you like sir.”

The officer nods, and Caleb winks at Anna, his heart speeding along in his chest.

He needs to get to Ben.

They had to stop overnight to rest the horses. He was used to riding alone with a beast not pulling anything, forgetting how much longer this took, and he’d barely slept a wink.

The longer Ben was with André, the more likely something might happen to him. The more likely they might throw him in a harder to reach prison, the more likely they might hang him, the more likely that Gamble rat might harm him…the more this, that, and the other thing that kept popping into Caleb’s mind, making him more fearful than he….well he hasn’t been this afraid in a very long time.

Ben had been shot, too.

What if he was ill? Ben was so damned stubborn he might not admit it while in the care of an enemy.

_Abigail’s there_ , he reminds himself. _She’ll take care of him if that’s true. She will. As much as she can._

That was the trouble.

Abigail was a brave lass, that much Caleb knew, but she could only do so much and keep herself and Cicero safe. He understood that was her first priority.

“All right,” the officer tells them. “You’re all set. Have a good journey.”

They set off again after that, Caleb urging the horses forward a little faster.

“If they give us too much trouble we’ll just ram our way out,” Caleb mutters. “You’ll have to play Anna’s husband on the way back, Williams, are you all right with that?”

“Yes sir, Lieutenant Brewster.” Williams nods and Caleb shakes his head at the use of _sir_. He wasn’t _sir_. That was Ben’s job. “But why?”

“Cause I’ll be hiding in the false bottom with Ben,” Caleb tells him. “It shouldn’t be too hard to pretend to be married to Mrs. Strong here.”

Williams smiles shyly at Anna, who shakes her head fondly.

“Not at all sir,” Williams says.

Caleb turns back to Anna, finding reassurance in his old friend’s presence. “We’ll have to dump this damn cabbage some place. You said you think we can find Abigail at the market?”

“I think she goes every day,” Anna answers, looking determined. “And she can tells us where André’s got Ben. I know she’ll be willing to do that, we’ll just need to make sure there’s a way to cover herself if something goes wrong.”

“Trust me Annie….” Caleb reaches over, squeezing Anna’s hand and receiving the same in turn. “I’m not going to let anything go wrong.”                                                                  

* * *

 

In the end Ben only sleeps for...well the truth is he doesn't know how long because he doesn't know the time, but it doesn't feel like long, the fever drenched slumber abandoning him for restlessness and anxiety. The worst of the fever seems to have receded as far as he can tell, though the bullet wound still hurts like fire. He doesn't want to ask for liquor to at least numb the feeling because what would that do to his head? It might make him say something foolish by accident.

He gets up from the cot, his side aching from his fall off the horse, and when he lifts his shirt he sees the wide swath of a bruise across his rib cage. He looks down at himself as he attempts a few painful steps of walking—more like limping—across the small room. He only has his old bloodstained breeches and someone's spare shirt, left with no coat and no shoes, his dirty stockings ripped on one side. His hair has come entirely loose, the ribbon tying it back long gone. The few steps he takes saps his energy, and he huffs in frustration.

The door opens again. 

He keeps his standing position, leaning against the wall and listening close. 

The footsteps didn't sound like André's. Or Abigail's, for that matter. Gamble's face appears at the bottom of the stairs after a few seconds, his expression making Ben's blood run cold. 

“What are you doing here?” Ben asks before he even really thinks, fury rushing through him. 

“I wouldn't take that tone if I were you,” Gamble says, stepping closer, and Ben only steps nearer to the wall. Gamble surveys him, that odd, stretched grin on his face. “Seems like you angered Major André earlier, and he keeps quite a cool temper, usually.”

“What business is that of yours?” Ben asks, unable to let go of the wall. He can't stand on his own without something to lean on, or he'll fall. 

“I'm sure he won’t mind if I…use some _different_ methods to get something out of you,” Gamble continues, ignoring the query. “Clearly just talking isn’t working. He might not like my methods, but he’ll like the outcome.”

Ben's stomach sinks; he’s in no state to defend himself well right now. “I think he will mind. He wasn't pleased with you when you killed Sackett and I doubt he’ll be pleased you’re down here without his express word.”

Gamble rolls his eyes. “I'm not going to kill you, Tallmadge. I'm just going to  _convince_  you to give the major what he needs.”

Ben watches Gamble advance toward him, his mind buzzing with what to do. Does he call out so that someone hears him? Can he call out for his adversary of all people, to stop what's happening? Gamble swings toward him with a closed fist, and Ben doesn't have any more time for thought. He catches Gamble's wrist before it comes into contact with his face, his hand grasping for the wall so he can steady himself, his legs quaking beneath him, tired out from the few steps he’d taken.

 “Little soldier boy isn't so fierce now, is he?” Gamble mocks, pulling his wrist out from Ben's grip and finally getting his blow in. Ben feels it connect hard with his nose, hot, sticky blood flowing out immediately. 

It takes every last ounce of control and focus Ben has in him not to go falling to the ground at the first swing. He shoves Gamble away with trembling hands, stumbling in the process and leaning more heavily on the wall.

“Ohhhh.” A dark laugh emerges from Gamble's mouth, his eyes flashing with something dangerous. “Got some spirit still, do you? We'll see about that.” 

Gamble rushes toward him and Ben plants his feet, but it doesn't do any good. Gamble pushes him to the ground and Ben puts two arms up in front of him, the old instincts from Beekman bullying him and his friends in Setauket kicking in even as he shakes from exhaustion and leftover fever. He blocks one of Gamble's blows, though another hits his shoulder hard—at least it’s not his face again—but Gamble only stands back up, kicking him in the side that's already bruised, and Ben bites his lip against a shout. If he were in normal health he thinks Gamble might not like to try him.

But he wasn’t.

And that was Gamble’s aim, wasn’t it? Going after a weakened opponent.

“Who is Culper?” Gamble hisses. 

When Ben doesn't answer Gamble kicks him again in the same spot, and this time Ben cries out, his voice echoing around the small room. Gamble won’t allow it when Ben tries curling in on himself, planting a foot on his chest and keeping him down. Ben thinks he hears footsteps making the floor creak above him, but he can't be sure. 

“Who.Is.Culper?” Gamble asks again, his voice rising. 

When he doesn’t respond, Gamble kicks him again. Hard.

Then again. Harder.

Ben thinks he hears something crack.

His ribs, no doubt.

“I’m not…” Ben breaths in, shutting his eyes against the wave of pain. He fruitlessly tries kicking Gamble away, smacking his foot as hard as he can against Gamble’s ankle, but it does little good with his bare feet. “I’m not telling you. Spill my blood all over this floor, it won’t matter.”

Gamble reaches down, seizing Ben’s collar, and Ben wishes to _God_ he’d been able to capture Gamble before he’d killed Sackett and gotten out of camp. Then he wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t be about to scream in agony in the house of the British head of intelligence, he wouldn’t he wouldn’t he _wouldn’t_ ….

“Oh you’ll tell me,” Gamble says, grinning again. “You’ll tell me right now. Every man starts off brave, but they all break once they’re in enough pain.”

Ben hears more footsteps off in a distant part of the house.

He’s not sure if anyone’s coming, but he doesn’t think André would ever sanction this.

Not this. He feels certain of that, somehow.

Gamble lets go of his shirt and before Ben realizes what’s happening, before he can react, Gamble’s foot is pressing down on his bandaged bullet wound.

Ben shouts, pure agony crashing over him, and it hurts so desperately he can’t even summon the sense to push Gamble away. His body pushes Abe’s name up toward his mouth, his mind screaming in protest.

_Think of something else. Think of something._

Images appear like shattered fragments in his mind, and he focuses on those instead of Abe’s name crawling up his throat, his body begging him to give it up. He won’t betray his friend. He won’t he won’t _he won’t_. Not _ever_.

_He’s six and racing around Lucas Brewster’s apple orchard, Abe and Caleb chasing him with high pitched squeals of delight as nine-year-old Samuel lays in the grass nearby, eating an apple and looking full of glee._

Gamble presses harder and Ben shouts again.

_He’s eight and Anna’s holding his hand tight as he cries, his arm burning from the bee sting._

_You’re all right Ben_ , she says to him. _I’m here. It’s okay to cry, too. Don’t let anybody tell you it’s bad._

“Who is Culper!” Gamble asks again. “Just tell me, Tallmadge. You’re going to tell me anyway, in the end.”

_He’s twelve and listening to his father talk about the Stamp Act, hearing a fervor in his voice as he whispers to a trusted circle of friends about potential action against the crown one day. About a free America. He catches his father’s spark that night as sure as the fire warms him against the winter chill._

“Tell me you idiot!” Gamble shouts, apparently losing any care about being heard now, and Ben feels his bandage rip, blood leaking out from the wound.

_He’s one and twenty, ready to join the army behind Nathan Hale and his brother. Caleb comes up behind him one day after he’s made his decision. Everyone was shocked that sweet Ben Tallmadge would go to war, wasn’t he supposed to be a teacher? But he would show them that he could fight. The redcoats had taken his father’s church, and he couldn’t bear it, his voices one of the youngest and the most passionate in the newly built Strong tavern, and he didn’t care who heard._

_Caleb’s fresh from Greenland and Ben’s relieved he’s back. Truth be told, he’d been terrified Caleb would stay._

_I’m coming too Tallboy,_ Caleb tells him _. I can’t let you get into this scrape on your own now can I?_

Gamble finally releases him, and Ben can barely process the frustration in his voice.

“Damn you’re a stubborn one Tallmadge. We’ll see how long that lasts.”

Gamble backhands him, and Ben feels something swipe against his cheek, drawing a thin line of blood.

“I…” Ben sucks in a breath, summoning words. “I’m not…telling you, dammit.”

Ben’s mind goes half blank when he hears the door bang open, tears of pain spilling out of his eyes, and he hasn’t the presence of mind to stop them. Through the haze he sees André with Abigail next to him, clapping a hand over her mouth. Ben curls into himself from his position on the floor, embarrassment rushing through him even as the pain sucks his sense away.

“Lieutenant Gamble what is the meaning of this!” André shouts. “Back away from Major Tallmadge this _instant_.”

Sir,” Gamble looks chastened, but he sounds annoyed. “He wasn't giving you what you asked for. Just talking isn’t going to break this one.”

Ben's hearing is only working halfway, a strange high-pitched noise screaming in his head. He slides himself up so he's sitting against the wall, every single piece of him aching and throbbing and laid bare with pain. He pulls his knees up to his chest to protect against any further attempts at kicking him, resting his head in his hands. 

“I didn't order you to come down here and beat a fellow officer!” André shouts, louder than Ben's ever heard him. “Get out, now, and wait for me in the sitting room.”

  
Gamble goes without another word.   
  
Ben can't look up because if he looks up he'll be vulnerable and crying and on the verge of sobbing in pain in front of _John André_ if he does. He curls in tighter until his limbs protest.   
  
He doesn't know what will happen to him. 

  
He doesn't know he doesn't know he doesn't know.   
  
He does know he hasn't been this frightened since that day in the woods when the Queen's Ranger's ambushed his men and slaughtered every last one of them, their blood spilling onto the ground. He wonders if the British will spill his now if he's of no more use to them.                                                                   

* * *

 

André's drawing by candlelight when he hears a knock at his bedchamber door.

It sounds urgent and hesitant all at once, a sense of foreboding filling him up.

“Yes?” he calls out, thinking that it must be important if Abigail's disturbing him after he's retired for the night, which she seemed loathe to do unless it was something truly important. “Come in.” 

Abigail opens the door, her nostrils flared with anxiety, but there's a determination in her eyes even still.  “Sir,” she says, one hand still grasping the doorknob. “You asked me once, why I didn't stop you when you sent Miss Peggy away. And I...well now I...”

Even in his foul mood André finds he can't snap at Abigail. Was she upset with his treatment of Tallmadge? Had she heard Tallmadge’s shout of surprise when he was slapped? Still, coming up now over an hour later or more, was odd. 

“Abigail what's the matter?” André asks, shutting his sketchbook closed against a half finished drawing of Peggy, her face as clear as ever in his mind.

“Sir, if you ordered what's happening downstairs then I have to tell you...I…” Abigail trips over the words, but she pushes forward anyway. “I know that you're better than that and I'm asking you to stop it. Please. If you didn't order it, then you should know about it and call it to a halt.” 

André stares at her, confused. “Order what, Abigail?”

Abigail looks slightly relieved. “Lieutenant Gamble, Major André,” she continues. “From what I heard it sounds like he's beating Major Tallmadge down there. I heard the major cry out in what sounded like terrible pain. And Lieutenant Gamble shouting. I know that…I know that you might think I’m soft on him because I knew him from Setuaket, but I also know…I know you couldn’t truly want this, sir.”

André stands up from his chair with such swiftness and force that he nearly knocks it over. “I didn't order Gamble to do any such thing Abigail,” he says, wanting her to know he wouldn’t have sanctioned this. “Are you certain?”

“Sir I'm  _positive_ ,” Abigail stresses the last word. “There was a noise like someone fell to the floor. I know this is a war, I understand Major Tallmadge is your adversary, but please don't let this happen. I _know_ you're better than that.” 

She meets his eyes as she speaks, and his affection for her makes itself known, a near smile sliding across his face. He throws on his dressing gown over his nightclothes before following Abigail to the lower room. She hands him a candle and lets him lead the way down the stairs. 

The sight that meets his eyes isn’t welcome.

Tallmadge is curled up on his side with his knees pulled up toward his chest and his arms covering his face, but André sees blood seeping from the bullet wound and from Tallmadge’s nose.

Abigail releases a soft gasp beside him, clapping a hand over her mouth, and André’s glad she must have sent Cicero upstairs so he didn’t see this.

“Lieutenant Gamble what is the meaning of this!” André raises his voice, anger rushing through him because Gamble just never damn well _listened_ , no matter how useful he was. “Back away from Major Tallmadge this _instant_.”

Sir,” Gamble argues. “He wasn't giving you what you asked for.”

“I didn't order you to come down here and beat a fellow officer!” André swipes his hand through the air in emphasis, and he thinks he agrees wholeheartedly now with General Clinton’s suggestion to help lead the counterfeiting mission. That at least, would get him something productive to do.  “Get out, now, and wait for me in the sitting room.”

Gamble goes without another word, leaving the three of them in the quiet room together.

God, André doesn’t know what to _do_.

Gamble had ruined  _everything_. 

Or perhaps he'd only sped along the inevitable, because if Tallmadge wasn't talking under that kind of duress he was unlikely to talk at all.

Turning him might be impossible, at this juncture.

André could pull out details, perhaps, but anything more?

He didn't know. 

And as he stands here now, his counterpart on the other side bleeding and beaten and half out of his senses with pain, he knows he can't prod further at present.

He loves Peggy Shippen more than the breath in his own lungs, but for right now, his plan to turn Tallmadge would have to wait.

Otherwise what kind of man was he? 

Tallmadge sits up against the wall now, his knees pulled up against his chest and his face resting in his hands, his breathing ragged. André sees the blood flowing from his nose as well as the bullet wound, red spreading onto the spare shirt André had the doctor change him into when Tallmadge’s own was soaked in blood.

Abigail looks at Ben and then back again at André, looking determined but just a touch afraid, André’s nod dispelling the fear from her face and replacing it with a spark he’s seen a few other times. She crouches down next to Tallmadge, placing one gentle, careful hand on his arm. Tallmadge tenses but he doesn’t otherwise move, and André watches Abigail press forward.

“Major Tallmadge?” she whispers. “I know….I know you must be in a great deal of pain, but can I see your nose, at least? Would that be all right?”

Tallmadge doesn’t move at first, sniffing and releasing a breath, clearly trying to get himself under control. He moves his hands away from his face after a moment, choosing to hold his side instead, and André sees another streak of blood on his cheek, long and thin like backhanded him. He looks at André for the briefest of seconds—it’s the first time André’s seen Tallmadge look afraid of him in any lasting way—and then back at Abigail, staying silent.

Abigail leans forward, her eyes narrowing as she examines Tallmadge’s nose. “Not, broken, I think, but there will be a bruise.” She turns back toward André. “Sir, I need to go upstairs and get what supplies we have. I’ll have to change that bandage on his wound, and do something for his nose, too.”

“I’ll clean up Major Tallmadge, Abigail, if you’ll go get the things I need,” André replies, saying the words before he even really thinks on it, a terrible guilt pressing in on him.

Tallmadge stays quiet but Abigail’s eyes widen, looking surprised.

“Sir,” she protests, sounding almost angry. “I can do this. I….with all due respect, I cleaned everything up when Captain Simcoe stabbed that man in the neck at your table. I….I can clean up Major Tallmadge.”

André puts a hand up, shaking his head. “I know you can, Abigail. But I hold responsibility for this, and I think Major Tallmadge and I need to speak a while. If you could get the supplies for me I would be most grateful, and I think Cicero might need your assurance right now. If Gamble gives you any trouble just call down and I’ll come immediately.”

Abigail hesitates, nodding in agreement and casting a glance back at them before going up the stairs again, leaving the two of them alone. Tallmadge’s eyes flit up toward André briefly before focusing back on the floor, and André isn’t sure what to do.

“Major,” André begins, clearing his throat, frozen in his standing position a few feet away from Tallmadge. “I need you to know that I did not order Lieutenant Gamble down here. I would not sanction that kind of treatment of a fellow officer, especially not one who has been as badly wounded as you.”

Tallmadge glares at him, looking more like a caged animal now than the intelligent, articulate young man of a few hours earlier.

“I’m sorry, Major Tallmadge,” André presses. “Truly, sir.”

Tallmadge still doesn’t answer, his eyes looking half glazed over with pain, and André knows he’s going to have to convince him to drink at least a swallow of rum. If he can’t tend to these wounds himself he’ll have to summon a doctor again. He won’t have the death of another officer on his hands. The noose might take him eventually if André can’t turn him—he sensed Clinton leading toward that earlier—but he finds he can’t even consider vanishing Tallmadge, or whatever Gamble had suggested.

He might have, before.

Now…well he just knows he can’t.

_You didn’t mind trying to have Robert Rogers assassinated and he was in your own army_ , a voice whispers in the back of his head. _Is this different?_

_Rogers is a stubborn,_ _selfish fool_ , André argues back. _Yes,_ _Tallmadge is different._

God, he misses Peggy. She would have known what to do. Had he been a fool for sending her away? If he hadn’t she would have been ostracized from her family. But then, perhaps not. Perhaps it all would have worked out. He’s in the middle of it now, and he doesn’t know if there’s a way out.

Abigail comes back down after another minute or two, carrying a bowl of water, clean cloths, a fresh bandage, and some type of ointment, along with a small glass and a bottle of rum, a needle, and thread.

“Thank you, Abigail,” André says, squeezing her shoulder carefully. “I’ll let you know if we need anything more. Please tell Cicero there’s nothing to fear, if he’s frightened.”

Abigail gives him a brief smile before looking at Tallmadge with concern before she’s gone again, the door closing behind her with an odd clang of finality.

“Major Tallmadge.” André doesn’t step any closer yet, unsure. “I think it would be best if you sat back on the cot, if you could?”

Tallmadge doesn’t look at him again, his gaze fixed on the floor, his voice hoarse and rife with anger. “I don’t need your help, Major André.”

André can’t say he’d answer any differently if their positions were switched, but that didn’t change the fact that Tallmadge was wrong. “I’m afraid you’re in no condition to tend to yourself. Kindly let me assist you.”

Tallmadge meets his gaze again, a decision forming in his eyes. He gets up slowly from the floor with an inevitable gasp of pain, blood dripping from the ruined bandage on his abdomen. He nearly falls, leaning hard against the wall and shaking uncontrollably until he’s forced to take André’s offer of a hand.

Tallmadge sits down on the cot, looking exhausted already as André pours a helping of rum into the glass.

“I hope you can trust this isn’t drugged,” André says. “Abigail would never do that, and she brought it down herself.”

Tallmadge looks at him skeptically, and André realizes he’s afraid of what drinking liquor might cause him to accidentally reveal.

“I won’t be questioning you anymore right now,” André assures him. “You have my word. Spymaster to spymaster.”

Were the situation less dire, André might have laughed.

How could you trust a snake in the garden?

He supposes they’ll have to try, however briefly.

Tallmadge nods, some relief washing across his face as he takes the glass, half gulping down the rum so quickly that he coughs, another gasp of pain bursting forth as he reaches for his bruised ribs. André thinks he looks painfully young, remembering Rogers and his vendetta against the precocious cavalry lad, not knowing that same man was his freshly named counterpart on the other side. Not yet.

“Lay back, if you would, and hold this cloth up to your nose to stem the bleeding.” André hands Tallmadge a fresh cloth and Tallmadge accepts, pressing it against his bleeding nose. “I need to take a look at this bullet wound.”

Tallmadge does as asked, closing his eyes briefly as André pulls up the chair from earlier. He lifts Tallmadge’s shirt so he can see the wound and the younger man’s eyes fly open, a potential _don’t touch me_ hanging on his lips before he bites the words back, clearly realizing André had to touch him to look at the wound.

André pulls off the ragged bandage and Tallmadge flinches, one hand grasping the edge of the cot.

“Suture’s come undone, unfortunately,” André mutters, examining the wound. “But I’ve sewn up a wound or two in the field, if you’ll trust me?”

Tallmadge looks over at him as if to say _what else can I truly do_? before nodding in agreement.

A gasp escapes Tallmadge’s lips as André starts sewing up the wound with the supplies Abigail brought down. Tallmadge keeps the cloth pressed to his nose, staring at the wall and looking anywhere but at André.

André can’t blame him.

Talllmadge shuts his eyes, breathing in, clearly trying not to let André see, but that was impossible now.

“Just hold steady a moment,” André says, kinder and more reassuring than he even intends to be, but he can’t seem to help it. “Nearly done.” He makes quick work of the rest, searching for something to say. “This might scar a bit more than that other bullet wound I spotted. Where did you get that, might I ask?”

Tallmadge meets his gaze briefly. “Robert Rogers.”

Silence rests in the space between then as André cleans around the wound, the sound of Tallmadge’s voice surprising him when it breaks into the quiet again.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks.

“Because I take responsibility for Gamble’s actions,” André explains, dabbing some of the ointment on the wound, and it must sting, because Tallmadge twitches slightly in response. “Perhaps I wasn’t clear enough with him, or perhaps he took his lead from me slapping you earlier, which I shouldn’t have done. I apologize for that.”

Tallmadge pulls away the red-stained cloth from his nose, looking at André again. “I didn’t think you ordered this, Major André. But I do wonder why you keep someone like Gamble in your employ.”

André pauses in his work. “For the same reason you shot Reverend Wakefield in those woods. Sometimes the war requires dark things of us, much as we don’t like to think on it, though I believe you and I know that better than even most people caught up in this fighting.”

Tallmadge goes quiet again as André cuts the bandage, gesturing at him to sit up so he can wrap it around. Spots of light red blood dot the white material as he does, and Tallmadge winces when André feels his ribs.

“One of these might be broken. Perhaps two,” André says. “If you could hold the bandage in place while I wrap more around the area?”

Tallmadge assents, breathing in through gritted teeth as André wraps another bandage twice around his chest, unable to do much else for a broken rib.

_God_ , André wants this war to end.

Then he could be with Peggy. Then he wouldn’t have to see a bruised and bleeding young man before him, someone he knows is a good soldier and a good man despite the chasm of their differences.

But war was the only way he could climb up from being a merchant’s son. In England, even wealthy merchants without any aristocratic connections were still never _quite_ good enough for the nobility because they were new money. He needed more than that to achieve the respect he desired. Victory and accolades here, being the special adjutant to a lauded general, could take him places his family’s well-earned and respectable legacy could not. He had a knack for war even as he was desperate for its end.

What would be left of them all when this was over?

“Let me have a look at your nose?” André asks, wetting another cloth to clean the smeared blood off Tallmadge’s face.

Tallmadge nods, wincing again as André touches his nose, wiping away the blood. André feels awkward at the intimacy, searching for something to say.

“You know Major Tallmadge,” André muses. “We may be on opposing sides, but I don’t know if we’re all that different from one another. I think we have some things in common.”

Tallmadge looks at him again, a gleam of intrigue visible among the pain. “How’s that?”

“I’m the son of a merchant, new money,” André continues, reaching for another cloth, some of the blood having dried on Tallmadge’s skin. “You’re the son of a minster from a small town. But we both had to prove ourselves, didn’t we? When this war started.”

The barest light appears in Tallmadge’s eyes, and André finds himself oddly drawn toward it.

“I suppose that’s true,” Tallmadge admits as André finishes his work after wiping away the blood on the other side of Tallmadge’s cheek, the thin cut from Gamble’s ring long and angry.

“We’ve both done well in our attempts, haven’t we?” André replies, seeing Tallmadge’s expression soften just an inch. He pauses, thinking. “You said you followed Nathan Hale into the army?”

Tallmadge nods, a pinch of grief in his face. “I did. Though at one point I think he considered leaving. I wrote him the letter that convinced him to stay.”

André hears the guilt in Tallmadge’s voice, feeling an odd need to reassure him that he doesn’t really understand, but in the end, the two of them might comprehend one another better than anyone else could, as far as their work went.

“I wouldn’t blame yourself for what happened to him.” André folds his hands, something inside him both fighting against and wishing for further conversation with this young man, someone he might have shared a glass of wine with, had things been different. “We all make our choices.”

“General Howe didn’t even give him a trial,” Tallmadge answers, sounding half caught in his own head. “They refused his request for a bible. And for a minister.” His voice goes lower, anger cutting through the exhaustion. “What’s the point of that sort of cruelty? If someone’s going to die you…well you might as well grant them peace, where you can. We can’t do that in battle. But they could have done that for him then.”

André sits back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, both of them laid bare in the dark room.

“Spies don’t always get the benefit of the rules, do they?” André whispers, the immediacy of that comment not going unnoticed.

“I think General Washington would give a British officer a trial.” Tallmadge meets his eyes, and André sees a fire in them. “And he could never deny anyone a request for something religious like that, if asked. Maybe I sound like a hypocrite after Wakefield. But I think it’s true.” Tallmadge pauses as if studying him, and André feels vulnerable under the gaze, wondering just who was being interrogated now. “I think if you’d chosen sides differently,” Tallmadge goes on. “Perhaps there might have been an easier path toward whatever it is you’re searching for, Major André. That’s what I’m fighting for. For something new. Something not dictated by birth and circumstance, but by the work the person is willing to put in. That people are given opportunity and not held back by their circumstance of birth. Benedict Arnold was an apothecary’s son. Alexander Hamilton was a poor boy in the West Indies.” He almost smiles, but not quite. “I was a minister’s son who made it to Yale. There might be something to it.”

André finishes the smile Tallmadge started. “Trying to turn me now?”

Tallmadge looks back with what looks like a glint of amusement in his eyes. “I would be remiss if I didn’t try. I think you’d be a good man to have on our side.”

A moment of powerful understanding and empathy rests between them, tangible in its intensity before it fades away, leaving them in the muck of their current situation.

 “I wish I could say I could release you, Major Tallmadge,” André says, surprised at sincerity of in his voice. “But I’m afraid unless you give me something there is very little chance of a way out for you. You might be in prison until the war ends. Perhaps even the noose might await. I won’t lie to you about either.”

Tallmadge gives him a terribly sad, exhausted smile, but there’s a life and a ferocity contained within even still. “If I gave you something to free myself I would be betraying what I pledged to fight for and the people who have entrusted their lives to me. I’ll take my chances with the noose or the prison cell, Major André.”

André has an unexpected burst of emotion he doesn’t think he could explain to anyone, everything the war’s brought to his doorstep resting heavily in his chest like stone and making him feel exposed.

“You’re a brave man, Major Tallmadge,” André says. And it’s true.

“So are you, sir,” Tallmadge answers. “A worthy opponent.”

André can’t help but smile, a melancholy pulling at him. There was no doubt Clinton would have to write Washington now. They couldn’t keep him without word any longer—not after Gamble’s actions. He’s not entirely sure yet if Clinton will petition for Tallmadge’s execution or if he’ll be content to send him to prison, but an exchange is quite remote unless Washington offered them something high on Clinton’s list. Perhaps if Tallmadge was in prison André could turn him but….

Truth be told André’s not sure now if he could _ever_ turn Benjamin Tallmadge. He’d sworn he wouldn’t underestimate him, but he had anyway.

He supposed he’d have to set his sights back on Arnold after all. He’ll do whatever it takes to get Peggy back, even if it means associating with someone as distasteful as General Arnold seems.

Tallmadge doesn’t ask what time it is again, seeming oddly at peace with his unsure circumstance—or perhaps he’s just exhausted—and André doesn’t press him again for information. He encourages Tallmadge to eat when he feels well enough, and then he takes his leave.

As he walks up the stairs, André thinks he’d rather have one Benjamin Tallmadge than ten Charles Lees or Benedict Arnolds, if given the choice.

But vainglorious men were easy to turn.

Honorable men were not.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, don't worry, Caleb will come to the rescue in the next chapter. It takes a while to get to New York in a cart! :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caleb and Anna rescue Ben with Abigail's help, racing out of New York before they're caught by the British. Caleb helps Ben as he struggles with the aftermath of his captivity, while handling his own upset over Ben's condition. Washington questions Ben about his time in André's custody, worried and angry over his treatment.

Last time they met in the market near Major André’s house, Abigail was angry and confused at seeing Anna Strong there.

This time she feels an overwhelming tide of pure relief.

She heard André shouting at Lieutenant Gamble for an hour last night, fury soaking every word. General Clinton came this morning, indicating he would write Washington tomorrow.

There was, however, no mention at all of Major Tallmadge’s release.

_What’s to be done, sir?_ André asked.

_Do you think you can turn him?_ Clinton replied, sounding sharper than normal.

Major André hesitated then, taking a moment to answer. _I would like to hold out hope, sir, but I confess I’m not certain. Gamble may have ruined any chance of that. Tallmadge is…he is not green, as I thought. And not the sort to go turncoat, I’ve realized._

_He’ll stay here while he recovers_ , Clinton said. _We’ll see what Washington offers, but I’m loathe to return him unless the exchange is very good. Besides that, killing Wakefield might be enough to try him as a spy. .The gallows are not out of the question, but it can’t be like Hale. There would have to be a trial. And we’d have to wait, besides. No one can see him like he is now, or they’ll realize how out of control the situation got._

_Yes sir,_ André replied, his voice containing a strong bite of regret. Not at General Clinton’s chastisement as much as what happened to Major Tallmadge.

Whatever the rumination over Major Tallmadge’s fate, Abigail could tell that Major André was fretting over what Gamble did. She’d caught him in the drawing room late into the night after he patched Major Tallmadge up, clearly upset. She’s been fretting about Major Tallmadge too, hoping there are plans to get him out of here before his health took a bad turn.

Or before they sent him to the gallows.

“Anna,” she whispers, looking around the market to see if anyone’s paying attention. She takes Anna’s wrist and laughs, covering in case people find them suspicious. “Walk with me, would you?”

Anna nods, less quarrelsome than the first time, the anxiety clear in her face. They go down a side street near the market, making themselves more hidden from view.

“Is Ben all right?” Anna asks, exhaustion threading through her frantic words. “Do you know? Abigail, please is he alive?”

“He’s alive,” Abigail tells her. “He….” she leans in closer, barely hearing her own whisper. “He’s in Major André’s lower room, at the house. There’s an entrance in the back.”

“How is he?” Anna presses, clearly noticing Abigail’s darted around that detail.

“He…” Abigail hesitates. “He’s been beaten badly.” She raises a hand when Anna opens her mouth, looking angry. “Not by Major André. By Gamble. Major André he…it’s not what he does.” She looks around her at the sound of footsteps nearby, her heart racing faster. “The less I know the better, but is the Brewster boy with you?”

Anna nods, blinking back tears.

“There are two sentries in the front and two by the small window that leads into the lower room,” Abigail tells her. “You’ll have to knock them out if you want to get him out. Wait until late. The major goes to sleep around—or at least retires—around eleven o’clock. Come after that.”

Anna takes Abigail’s hands, noticing they’re slick with sweat. “Major André won’t suspect you, will he? We don’t want to endanger you.”

Abigail shakes her head. “I don’t believe so. But I need to go, now. I don’t want anyone seeing me with you now that the major’s seen you before.”

Anna nods again, pressing Abigail’s hands tightly.

“Annie,” Abigail says when Anna lets go.

Anna turns back around, and Abigail thinks just from the look in her eyes that she’s been through something lately and Abigail wishes she could ask what.

There isn’t time.

“I helped him as best I could,” Abigail continues. “I promise you. But with Cicero with me now I…”

Anna smiles at her, looking determined and grateful and sad all at once, and Abigail thinks the young girl she knew has matured into something new. “I know, Abigail. You have to keep him safe. And yourself safe. That has to come first, but I knew you would do whatever you could to help Ben. Thank you. For everything.”

Abigail smiles. “Tell the Brewster boy to be quiet, all right? Everything depends on it.”

“I will,” Anna assures her. “I promise.”

Abigail watches Anna disappear back into the crowds of York City, praying this goes smoothly and wondering how all this would end.

Wondering when the war will end.                                                                       

* * *

 

Caleb and Williams find quiet on André’s street.

They parked the cart a short distance away near a sleepier tavern where people were either too drunk or too tired to bother with caring why Anna was waiting there. They’d get Ben out, get to the cart, and then get out of here as quietly as possible.

Quiet was the key.

Though Caleb isn’t opposed to shooting his way out of a checkpoint, if need be.

Caleb covers his face with his scarf, directing Williams to do the same.

The sentries out front go down nice and easy, knocked unconscious by the butts of their pistols with little noise to alert anyone. The street was empty, but Caleb doesn’t bank on someone not walking by and noticing, so they move the two unconscious men around to the side of the house, out of sight.

They have minutes, or this all falls apart.

The sentries by the back window give them more trouble. Williams’ gets his man down without much of a fight, knocking him out like he had the first.

Caleb’s man has other ideas.

Caleb gets a good hold and claps a hand over the man’s mouth to stifle any noise, kneeing him in the back and forcing him to the ground.

“Don’t fight me,” Caleb whispers. “Don’t.”

The man keeps struggling and Caleb pushes back his panic, pulling his knife off his belt and silencing the man permanently. The body drops to the ground, the grass beneath muffling the sound. Caleb listens hard for any sound of alarm, turning to Williams when he finds none. Williams’ eyes widen as he looks down at the body, but he swallows, keeping calm.

“Wait for me right here, help Ben out from this side,” Caleb tells him. “Our contact said he…” Caleb swallows back his rage at Gamble, at André, for hiring a man like that, at Washington for not listening to Ben in the first place, which allowed Gamble to get away at all. “…well she said he wasn’t in good shape.”

They move a large chest away from the window, which appears to have served a dual purpose of keeping Ben from getting out of the room, and light from getting inside. The sight infuriates Caleb, his blood scorching hot in his veins.

Ben probably hadn’t known the time for days, which would make anyone half mad.

Caleb breaks the lock on the window without too much noise. He winces when it gives a small creak as it opens, but still he doesn’t hear anyone rising and it was better than breaking glass. He gazes in, seeing a very short drop; the window is low-hanging and it would be easier for Ben to get out that way. Caleb slides down, his feet hitting the floor with nary a sound, the room lit by a solitary candle in the dark.

Then, he sees Ben.

His friend is asleep on a small cot in the corner, curled up into a ball on one side, a fresh bruise spread across his nose and collection of bandages peeking out from under his shirt, covering what must be his bullet wound and God knows what else. His breeches are stained with old blood, his shoes and his coat nowhere to be seen.

If there were time, Caleb might break down crying here and now.

As it stands he wipes his eyes, sucking in a breath.

He would throw John André and Gamble and the entire goddamn British army off a cliff _right now_ , if he could, for making Ben look like this.

_Ben._

Kind, fierce, brave, smart, hard-headed Ben.

He loves Anna and Abe and his remaining family dearly. But when he thinks of being without Ben, his mind goes blank.

He doesn’t know how to fathom it. He doesn’t really know when that began, he only knows it’s true.

“Couldn’t let someone else do the reverend assassinating, could you?” Caleb mutters, affectionate as he shakes his head. “You handsome idiot.”

Caleb touches the side of Ben’s face, feeling the sharp stubble there and hoping he can wake him without too much fright. “I think you’d best leave the beard to me, Tallboy. It doesn’t suit you.”

Ben shifts, and Caleb’s relieved when he sees the blue eyes crack open.

“Caleb?” Ben asks in a hoarse voice. He sounds relieved and worried and tired beyond belief all at once.

He also sounds like he knew Caleb would come whether he liked it or not, and something about it makes Caleb smile.

“That’s right Benny boy,” Caleb replies. “I’m getting you out of here. But don’t talk anymore all right? I don’t want anyone hearing us.”

Ben nods, accepting Caleb’s offer of help and getting up from the cot with a muted gasp of pain.

“Any shoes?” Caleb whispers, keeping his eyes on Ben’s.

Ben shakes his head, keeping quiet. Caleb helps him over to the window, which is low to the ground and at least reasonably easy to crawl through. Ben should only have to lift himself a little.

Caleb meets Ben’s eyes again. “Can you do it?” he asks as softly as he can.

They need to get out of here. The longer they remain, the more likely they’ll get caught.

Caleb thinks he hears the floor creak somewhere upstairs.

Abigail. It could be Abigail.

Please be Abigail.

Ben nods, and Caleb wishes he could just make this easier. Ben breathes in deep, clearly understanding the urgency of the situation as much as Caleb. He crouches down, biting his lip again to prevent any sound getting out.

He swings one leg over, and Caleb sees Williams on the other side, reaching out a hand, which Ben accepts before swinging another leg over.

“I’ve got you Major Tallmadge,” Caleb hears Williams murmur. “Steady there.”

Caleb crouches and makes his own way out the small window, not bothering to close it again for fear of making any noise. Ben’s bent over with his hands on his knees and looking frightfully pale, his hands shaking. There’s no doubt he’s had a fever—and might have a new one—and the beating must have happened recently for how much pain he’s in. Caleb goes over, putting a gentle hand on his back.

“I can do it,” Ben whispers. “I can do it.”

“Anna’s with the cart a few blocks from here,” Caleb tells him, earning a confused look about Anna’s presence, but Ben doesn’t press. “Williams and I will help you. Let’s get the hell away from here, yeah?”

Ben nods again, the ghost of a smile on his face.

Caleb and Williams stand on either side of Ben in the darkness, sliding careful arms around his waist, but it’s inevitable that essentially anything hurts him. Ben puts his own arms around their shoulders, the three of them making their way down back alleyways and streets, avoiding people where they can. A few drunk passerby stop and stare at them, and Caleb laughs, feigning his own intoxication.

“My friend here got into a tavern fight and lost a bet for his shoes!” Caleb exclaims. “Looks like you gents had a better night.”

Caleb pulls them behind a wall as a line of redcoats walk by, headed in the same direction they just came from.

Toward André’s house.

Someone must have raised the alarm.

“Williams,” Caleb whispers, his heart picking up speed.

If he could get into New York in a damned submersible, if he could get into a British _prison_ , he could do this. He could get them out here.

“Go get Mrs. Strong and drive the cart over here to this alley nice and calm-like, all right?” Caleb continues. “It’s only a half block away from here. Quick.”

Williams nods, taking off at a steady walk so as not to draw attention. Ben bends over again as Williams goes, resting his hands on his knees like he did earlier, his whole body shaking now.

“If you get caught…” Ben says, his voice barely audible.

“Then we’ll hang together like we do everything else.” Caleb would smack Ben if he wasn’t already in unbearable pain. “And the attempt will have been damn well worth it.” He goes over, crouching so Ben can look at him. “But we won’t. We’re getting out of here.”

“Caleb, I…” Ben’s voice breaks off as if he can’t quite say what he means, breathing in and out quickly as if fighting against every emotion he must have felt while he was trapped down there.

“Shhh, Tallboy.” Caleb stands, putting a hand on the back of Ben’s neck, feeling the drops of cold sweat gathered there. “It’s all right.”

It wasn’t, really. But it would be. Caleb was certain of that.

There were obviously things bothering Ben other than the injuries, but there would be time for that when they got back to camp. Caleb recognizes the sound of guilt in Ben’s voice just from two words, and he’s determined to talk him out of it, when the time comes.

He could never doubt Ben was anything but brave, in there.

“Why is Anna here?” Ben asks, looking as quizzical as he might with a bruised face.

“Long story,” Caleb answers. “Had to get her out of Setauket though. She’ll be in camp with us. Washington knows.”

“Does…” Ben breaths in as if he can’t get enough air. “Does Washington know you’re here?”

“Sure does,” Caleb replies, not elaborating. “But the British didn’t write him. We found out because of Townsend. Townsend told Abe and he came—with Townsend in tow—to find us. I’ll have to get word to him we got you if we survive this madness. He was out of his head with worry, the poor fellow.”

Ben gives a half smile at the mention of Abe. “Not you though? You weren’t worried?”

Caleb snorts. “You know I was you dumb bastard. But _I_ knew I’d be getting you the hell out of here.”

Williams and Anna pull the cart around, cutting off anymore conversation. Anna climbs down, putting a quick kiss on Ben’s forehead in silence and earning an exhausted smile in return, which makes Caleb’s heart lift somewhat. Williams keeps the horses steady as Anna and Caleb help Ben into the false bottom of the cart, Caleb sliding in after him.

“What are you doing?” Ben asks.

“Riding with you, of course.” Caleb can’t see Ben’s face in the dark, but he’s surprised when Ben doesn’t argue the point. Anna closes the bottom just before another wave of redcoats walk by.

An alarm had _definitely_ been raised, then, though no one bothers them.

Not yet.

Caleb feels the cart bump as they set off, anxiety and relief rushing simultaneously through his veins like wildfire.

 They could do this.

They could get out of here.

Then in the dark, confined space, he feels Ben’s hand reach for his own, holding tight.                                                                 

* * *

 

As it turns out they don't have to shoot their way through any checkpoints.

Caleb credits the lack of suspicion toward their cart to Anna, because the bloody-backs hardly ever manage to suspect a woman of anything. They get a room in a tiny inn once they're in safer territory. Williams goes downstairs to retrieve some food, leaving Anna, Caleb, and Ben alone.

“I'm all right,” Ben says softly as Anna helps him into bed and arranges the pillows so he can sit up, that familiar stubborn gleam in his eyes. “You don't have to...”

“You're not all right, Ben,” Caleb replies, not unkindly, but still with a bit of sternness, realizing he sounds more like a frustrated Ben than himself. “If this were Anna or me or Abe you wouldn't hear of it if we said we didn't need help.”

  
Ben huffs, as if to say, _fine, you're right_ , just not in so many words. 

 

“When was the last time you ate something?” Anna asks, sitting down on the edge of the bed and searching Ben's face for the things he's not telling them.

“I...” Ben stops, thinking for a second as if he truly can't remember. “I had some broth and some tea in the first few....well I don't know how long I was there. And some bread, later. I was afraid André was drugging me.”

Caleb feels a flash of anger again, rawer somehow now that they're out of New York and he sees Ben's state in the dying light of day. Ben squints when he looks toward the window as if the light sears his eyes, and Caleb’s rage only burns deeper.

“Did he?” Caleb asks, realizing he sounds sharper than he means. He sits down on the bed near Ben, searching Ben’s face for answers he might not give on his own.

“No, I don't think so,” Ben answers, sounding oddly less furious with André than Caleb feels. “I just....well. I kept dreaming and I was feverish and paranoid, I suppose. But I... I haven't eaten much.”

Caleb sits down opposite Anna, sensing that Ben doesn't really want to talk right now and tussling between making him and letting him rest, settling on the latter. 

“If you don't want to talk about what happened right now,” Caleb says. “Would you mind telling me about this collection of wounds you've managed to get when I let you slip away?” Caleb tries a smile, and Ben returns it, albeit shakily. “Just so we know. It'll be another day before we can get back to the camp.”

Ben nods, lifting up his shirt just enough to show them. “Bullet wound here, though the bullet's been removed.” Caleb sees the beginnings of a bruise over the bullet wound, the skin angry and inflamed. “Gamble stepped on it,” Ben tells them when he sees Caleb’s questioning look. He puts one hand on his side, wincing, and Caleb suspects there are bruises beneath the white bandaging. “Bruised ribs, and at least one or two broken from where Gamble kicked me.” Ben speaks as if he's giving a report, and Caleb does feel concerned by how detached he sounds. “My nose isn't broken, but you, well you see the bruise. My shoulder’s a bit sore from Gamble getting a hit on me there, as well as the cut on my face. And Gamble knocked me in the head hard with a pistol, when he captured me. I...I think that's all.” 

“Ben,” Anna breathes, grasping Ben’s hand where it rests on the blankets.

Caleb sees him press Anna’s hand tight, but he doesn’t offer anything more, his mouth stuck in a tight line as he if he’s keeping something back.

“Let’s get some rum in you,” Caleb says, filling a small glass half-way up with the bottle he brought with them.

Ben’s hands still shake, so Caleb puts the glass to his friend’s lips as Anna gets up from her position at the foot of the bed, coming over to feel Ben’s forehead.

“Fever.” She looks over at Caleb, worried. “Not a bad one, but still.”

“We’ll get some food in you and then sleep for a few hours,” Caleb directs, looking at Ben again. “I don’t want to stay here too long, but you need some rest.”

Ben narrows his eyes, looking like he might laugh if he weren’t so exhausted. “Since when were you such a mother hen?”

Caleb crosses his arms, tilting his head. “Since now, Benny boy. Argue with me at your peril, eh?”

Williams returns shortly after that, and Caleb goes over to Ben while Anna helps sort out the food. Caleb sits down on the bed, putting a gentle hand on Ben’s back.

“Thank you.” Ben looks over at him, his voice even hoarser than before. “For getting me out.” Ben shivers and Caleb shifts the blankets, wrapping more around Ben’s shoulders. “I would lecture you about…well. I know better I suppose. You’re brilliant, you know.”

Caleb winks. “Well, _I_ didn’t go to Yale, but I’ve been known to have some pretty good ideas, in my time.”

That does earn a smile from Ben, and soon after he’s asleep again, Williams taking a rest in some spare blankets on the floor, his snores filling the room.

“You’re going to have to get him to talk about what happened,” Anna whispers to Caleb, unable to sleep just as much as him. “I’m worried about how…methodical he sounded about his injuries. He didn’t sound like Abe exactly but it…well they’re very different, I know. But they both have this way of walling themselves up, you know?”

Caleb nods. “I do, Annie.” She leans her head on his shoulder, and despite the bad circumstance, Caleb wishes Abe were here with the three of them. “I’ll get him to talk, though, once we’re back. Don’t you worry.”

* * *

 

Everyone in camp stares when they drive back up in the cart at twilight. An eerie, odd silence hangs over the area, devoid of the usual chatter and sounds of movement, or even the sharp voices of an argument. It reminds Caleb of that terrible winter at Valley Forge when the camp was frozen and silent and half drained of hope. 

“Is that Major Tallmadge?” some men whisper, trying to get a better look. 

“Hey!” Caleb calls out. “Back up, you lot. Give him some space. He ain't some kind of attraction.”

Some of Ben's dragoons come up then, ushering some of the gawkers away. Caleb helps Ben out of the cart, thinking they ought to make their way toward the medical tent.

“My tent,” Ben whispers, leaning heavily on Caleb. “Please.”

Caleb doesn’t argue, helping him to the nearby tent and down onto the cot. Anna follows behind and Caleb turns around, taking her hand and pulling her in close.

“Can you go get the doctor?” he asks. “And ask him to come here? Explain the circumstance and he shouldn’t argue. And if does tell him I’ll come get him myself, and he doesn’t want that.”

Anna nods, squeezing his hand as she goes. Sargent Collins sticks his head into the tent, and Caleb bites back a sigh, feeling oddly more nervous now that they’re safe in camp than he did before. Most of the soldiers all mean well, but Ben doesn’t look right, and he needs a moment of quiet to figure out why.

“I won’t bother you major,” Collins says. “But we’re glad to have you back, sir. Let us know of anything you need, and we’ll see it done.”

Ben tries a smile, and Caleb notices it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Thank you sergeant. And thank you for sending Williams, he was a great help to Lieutenant Brewster and Mrs. Strong. Tell the men I’ll speak to them soon?”

Collins nods, giving Caleb a grateful look before going out again, shooting one last worried glance back at Ben.  

Then, it’s just the two of them.

Ben stares off into the distance, shaking his head every few seconds as if willing himself back to normal. 

“Hey there Tallboy.” Caleb squats down in front of his friend, meeting his eyes. 

Ben looks back at him with wide eyes and for just a slip of a moment he looks sixteen again, naive and passionate and whip smart, smiling at Caleb a few nights before going off to Yale. The September air was hot and sticky around them, adding a layer of sweat to their skin. They were giving cover for Abe and Anna to steal a kiss, so it was just them and the stars and the hum of the ocean beyond.

_I'll miss you_ , Ben said then with earnest, painful sincerity.  _You're terrible at writing people but I'll say write me anyway._

_I won't forget you Tallboy,_  Caleb said in return, feigning like he was fine and grinning at Ben.

The man the war turned Ben into sucks him back up and he turns quickly away as if he's ashamed of something, though Caleb isn't sure what. It's not that Ben thinks he should be ashamed that surprises Caleb, it's more that he can't pinpoint which thing Ben's decided he should be embarrassed over. 

Ben starts crying. 

It's quiet and soft and muted, but there's no mistaking the tears flooding down his face. 

Something about it shakes Caleb to his core. He’s seen Ben cry before but this…this was different, even if he couldn’t explain why.

Caleb reaches out without hesitation, putting his hands on either side of Ben's face. Ben grasps at one of Caleb's hands, holding tight. 

“Hey there Benny boy,” Caleb says. “It's okay Ben. It's okay. You’re okay.” 

Ben draws in a sharp breath. “I let you all down by getting captured. I endangered it all. It was my job and I failed. Washington should have me resign my post. You should be angry at me.”

Ben tries pulling his hand out of Caleb’s but Caleb won’t let go. He moves his hands from his friend’s faces, taking both of Ben’s hands in his own.

“It’s not your fault you got captured, Ben,” Caleb tells him, serious now, because even he can’t make a joke about this. “It could have happened to anyone. You came up with the idea for this spy ring, and I doubt you told André anything that could compromise it.” Ben looks skeptical about this, but Caleb keeps going. “And I’m not angry at you. How could I be?”

Ben shakes his head, and Caleb senses him retreating into himself, so he tugs on Ben’s hands, keeping him in the present.

“What happened?” Caleb asks, and Ben releases a real sob now, the sound making Caleb’s chest ache. Ben starts shaking all over, fighting against his tears, and Caleb moves from the ground, sitting on the side of the cot instead, pulling Ben close. Ben stiffens before resting his head on Caleb’s shoulder, sobbing quietly into Caleb’s shirt.

Caleb remembers when Ben’s mother died. Ben was fourteen then, crying into Caleb’s shoulder in much the same way, even if he had a hard time being that kind of vulnerable with anyone.

_I know you miss her_ , Caleb said that night as they sat in the empty church, the coffin in the front and ready for burial the next day. _It’s okay to cry._

“When Gamble came down there,” Ben begins, his words muffled against Caleb’s shirt before he pulls back, sniffing. “And he stepped on my bullet wound, I…my body was _screaming_ at me to give up Abe’s name. I could feel his name stuck in my throat and it took every ounce of control I had to keep quiet. I kept…I kept thinking of good memories. But what if I’d…”

Caleb takes Ben’s hands again. “You didn’t, Tallboy. You didn’t. And that’s the point. You didn’t give him up.”

“But I…” Ben swallows, shaking harder, tears welling in his eyes again. “I could have, Caleb. I could have.”

Caleb pulls Ben closer, wishing he could go back in time and prevent this from happening, wishing he could prevent Ben from _ever_ feeling like he wasn’t brave. This small movement makes Ben sob again, the sound sharp and half held back.

“You would never give up a single one of us if you could help it the least bit,” Caleb tells him, running one hand up and down Ben’s back. “Do you hear me Tallmadge? If you’d cracked it wouldn’t have been your fault. But you didn’t. You didn’t, Ben.”

The tent flap flies open and none other than George Washington steps in, surprising them both. Ben jolts at the sound and he jumps away from Caleb, looking alarmed when he sees the commander of the Continental Army standing in his tent, the general’s hair windswept and his cape askew. Caleb gets up from the cot in an instant, but Washington speaks before Caleb can manage.

“Major Tallmadge,” Washington says, sounding relieved. “I’m so thankful you’ve returned.” He turns toward Caleb, looking half awestruck at seeing him alive. “Lieutenant Brewster why on _earth_ did you not report in to me the moment you returned to camp? Does something of this magnitude not merit my attention?”

“Sir,” Caleb steps in front of Ben when he sees him wiping his eyes, trying to give him a moment to collect himself. Washington couldn’t see Ben like this, because Caleb knew Ben couldn’t bear it. “I’m asking you to please come back tomorrow. Ben’s been through enough for one day, and needs some time to himself.”

“Lieutenant Brewster,” Washington protests, his eyes flickering over to Ben with worry, clearly annoyed that Caleb’s in the way. “I am the commanding officer of this army.”

“I know sir.” Caleb holds up his hands, keeping the frustration out of his voice for Ben’s sake.

“Caleb,” Ben tries to argue, but Caleb shakes his head, keeping his eyes on Washington. Ben falls silent, devoid of energy to argue. A sure sign of his exhaustion, because Ben was usually perfectly happy to argue about anything.

“I know sir,” Caleb repeats. “But Major Tallmadge is unwell and it would be better if he gave you his report tomorrow.” Caleb pauses, wishing he didn’t have to say this part aloud. “That bastard Gamble beat him, General Washington, badly, and he needs at least one good night of sleep before he can speak about what happened. Trust me enough to listen to me. No one in the ring is any immediate danger.”

Washington frowns, but Caleb sees something change in his face, and he nods, giving in. He remembers Ben telling him about Washington saying he wasn’t Ben’s father, and that it wasn’t his job to make him see sense, but Caleb sees something very much like fatherly concern in his eyes when he looks toward Ben.

“I’m very sorry for everything you may have undergone, Benjamin,” Washington leans around Caleb so he can get a look at Ben. Ben leans around slightly as well, meeting Washington’s gaze, his eyes red and his expression still indicating how embarrassed he is. “Are you all right?”

“I will be sir,” Ben whispers, but he can’t manage anything more.

“I will return in the morning,” Washington continues. “Get some rest.” He looks over at Caleb, a hint of fondness in his eyes. “Both of you.”

“Sir,” Ben protests. “I can come to you.”

Washington holds up a hand. “That’s quite all right. I think this merits my coming to you.”

The general leaves then, and Anna comes in with the doctor in tow right after, both of them looking bewildered. Anna reluctantly goes to get her own things set up—they’d left too much in a hurry for her to do that a few days ago—leaving the doctor and Caleb to help Ben change out of his bloodied clothes and into something new, the doctor undoing the bandages and examining Ben’s injuries.

“I don’t think you’ve got blood poisoning,” the doctor mutters, examining the bullet wound, where Caleb sees a bruise in the shape of a boot covering the skin. Gamble’s no doubt, the blue-purple splatter matching the large bruises on Ben’s other side. “But you might have a lingering fever from the aggravation of the wound. And two broken ribs, actually. You’ll need rest for two weeks at least, maybe three, and to get some more food in you. We’ll have to keep this wound clean and it may trouble you for a while after it’s healed.”

He rewraps all the bandages with clean cloth, leaving some ointment and his own bottle of rum behind, promising to return in the morning. Ben lays down, pulling his blanket up to his chin, and Caleb wishes there were more he could give him. Caleb has his own cot brought in, putting it near Ben’s because he’s _certainly_ not leaving him alone, and the damn military cots are too small to fit two people. He can’t risk kicking Ben, besides. There’d been plenty of cold nights in Setauket when he stayed over at the Tallmadge house, whispering ghost stories into Ben’s ear as they fell asleep under a pile of blankets, and the memory warms him now.

“Caleb,” Ben argues. “No.”

“No what?” Caleb asks, fiddling with his own blankets and pulling the cot over right next to Ben’s. “You think I’m just going to go back to my own damn tent and say _well goodnight Ben, see you later_ , when you’re sick and I just risked my arse to get you back from _John André_? Save it, Tallmadge.”

Ben stays quiet, laying on his back, because neither side is really comfortable. They don’t speak for a minute or two as Caleb slides into his own cot, wondering how much prodding he’ll have to do to get Ben to talk.

“André thought you were Culper, for a little while.” Ben’s voice surprises Caleb in the quiet almost as much as the words he speaks. “He might still.”

Caleb sits up, bewildered. “What the hell?”

Ben almost laughs. “Yours was the only real name in some of the documents he stole. He knew you were a lieutenant, and I just said you were, but you were half a privateer, really.” Caleb chuckles at that, but it dies off when a shadow crosses Ben’s face. “I wouldn’t tell him anything else, but I flinched when he asked me if you were important to me. I didn’t mean to…I…”

“I’m blushing,” Caleb says, offering Ben a grin and drawing him out of his mood.

“Stop it,” Ben replies, fighting a smile before looking worried again.

“You didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know, Ben,” Caleb answers, more serious. “You can’t help it if you flinched. Charles Lee gave up your entire unit because he wanted glory and André flattered him. You didn’t give up anything when you were trapped and wounded and beaten. It says something about you.”

Ben makes a noncommittal noise but he doesn’t argue, which Caleb takes as progress.

“Ben?”

“Hmm?”

“I love you too.”

That light Caleb’s familiar with appears in Ben’s eyes and he smiles fully, sinking a little deeper into the cot, looking marginally more relaxed.

“André cleaned me up himself, after Gamble,” Ben tells him, and Caleb can’t quite process the words. “And he apologized for slapping me.”

Anger pokes holes in the momentary bit of goodwill Caleb might have been willing to lend _John André_ , of all people. “He slapped you?”

Ben quirks an eyebrow, though he looks like he’s having a hard time staying awake. “That’s not really the point, Caleb.”

Caleb flops on his stomach, feeling like they’re back in Setauket and jamming themselves into Ben’s bed, Samuel snoring down the hallway. Sometimes it was all three of them in Abe’s bed, which was marginally bigger, or sleeping out in the Brewster apple orchard in the summer, all of them laying tightly together despite the space.

“He was missing someone,” Ben mutters, almost to himself. “And that braid Shanks mentioned…it was gone. It had to have been a woman.” Ben starts as if realizing Caleb’s still listening to him. “Gamble came down there without an order, and André he…he felt worse about it than I expected. I felt…” Ben shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“Hey.” Caleb reaches over, pushing a stray hair out of Ben’s face. “What?”

“I felt…” Ben struggles with the words. “Connected to him, almost. Still angry. Still afraid of what he might uncover. Still so desperate to get out of there. But strangely understood, for a moment. He’s….if he were on our side, we might be friends. But…well that obviously isn’t the case. I know that sounds strange.”

“Well…” Caleb can’t say he feels anything other than rage at John André, but he knows where Ben’s coming from. “That makes sense. You’ve got the same job. Different sides, but the same burden, you know?”

Ben nods, his eyes fluttering closed before opening again. “He’s kind to Abigail. I know that must make things harder for her in some ways and better in others, but she…I think she was the one who told André that Gamble was beating me. She’s got more courage than we realize, I think.”

Caleb leans over, blowing out the candle. “She does that. You should sleep, Ben. It’s…well it’s been a bit of a day, hasn’t it?”

Ben nods again, keeping his eyes closed. “Thank you, Caleb,” he whispers as he falls asleep, his voice cut through with a pain Caleb wishes he could erase. “I…the moment I was most terrified was when I thought André might go after you. I couldn’t stand that…I…”

Ben seems to fall asleep in the middle of his sentence, and Caleb smiles. He makes out Ben’s face in the sliver of moonlight coming in through the tent flap, pressing his lips quickly to his friend’s forehead. Ben settles deeper into his blankets, seemingly feeling safer in sleep than he has in days. Caleb feels for Ben’s hand under the covers, reaching over the tiny crack of space between their cots, holding Ben’s fingers loosely in his own.

Sleep claims him after that, and for the first time since he heard the words _John André has Ben_ spill from Abe’s mouth, he falls into a deep, unbroken slumber.

* * *

 

For the first time in days, Ben doesn’t jolt awake. He opens his eyes slowly, sunlight filtering through….

Where was he?

He looks around, finding the surroundings familiar.

His tent. His _own_ tent.

He was…well not home, exactly, but what served as home for now. He looks over, seeing Caleb’s cot empty, feeling strange without his presence. He vaguely remembers waking in the middle of the night from a hazy nightmare he couldn’t fully recall and feeling Caleb grasping his fingers. He’d fallen asleep more easily after that, holding onto Caleb’s hand. He feels a different gentle hand come down on his forehead, the touch familiar.

Anna.

“Morning,” she whispers, as if afraid even speaking too loud will hurt him.

“Morning.” He sits up slowly as she removes her hand, putting his feet on the ground, a throbbing ache flooding through him. He feels less cold than the night before even as winter slowly takes hold, the autumn chill growing deeper. If his soaked through shirt was any indication his fever must have broken, though he still feels like he has a smaller, less ferocious one. “What are you doing here so early? Or…is it early?”

“Looking after you until Caleb gets back,” she tells him, coming over to sit next to him. “He went to get you something to eat.”

Ben glances over her, sensing her anxiety. “Are you all right?” he asks.

Anna scoffs, shaking her head. “ _Me?_ Benjamin Tallmadge.”

“What?” he protests. “You’ve left Setauket. You’re here in camp. I think I have a right to ask.”

Anna smiles, putting a gentle arm around his shoulders. “It’s a long story but….well, I almost married Major Hewlett.”

Ben stares at her. “Pardon?”

“As I said…it’s a long story.” She squeezes his shoulder. “Washington didn’t ask too many questions when I arrived because of what happened to you, but…”

“…we can’t tell him you almost married a British officer,” Ben finishes for her. “I…” he shakes his head, his brain still not functioning as he’d like. “We’ll come up with something.”

Ben doesn’t like lying to Washington, but if it’s not harmful and it protects Anna from whatever she needed saving from in Setauket, he’s certainly more than willing.

She’d do the same, no doubt.

“Here,” Anna says, getting up and pouring Ben a measure of the rum. “Drink some of this. You’re trembling again. I’ll tell you the whole story later, all right?”

Ben accepts, taking a long swig of the rum, trying not to cough as the bitter liquid goes down. He looks at Anna, remembering the flash and fragments of memory of her entering his mind as Gamble beat him. His whole body aches, though some of the pain is at least less sharp before. Marginally, anyway.

“When I was down there…” Ben grasps the edge of his cot, the memory raw and vivid and sharp. “I kept trying to think of good things from the past. I remembered that time you held my hand after I got stung by that bee.”

Anna quirks one eyebrow. “And you cried?”

Ben frowns, grumbling. “I was eight.”

This is a bad argument, on its face. He was crying last night, too, sobbing flat out into Caleb’s shoulder.

Anna kisses the side of his head. “I’m teasing you. .I’m glad I could keep you company down there.”

Ben puts the glass of rum down, folding his hands and studying his intertwined fingers. “You all did.”

“Hey.” Anna tugs on his arm, directing his gaze toward her own. “I know you were brave down there, Ben. I never doubted it.”

“Caleb said that too,” Ben mutters.

“Hey,” Anna repeats, putting a single finger on his face and making him meet her eyes directly. “We say that because you’re you. We all care about this. But you…well you’re you, Ben. Ever since that night you got reprimanded by Richard Woodhull in the tavern for speaking out of turn I knew you’d jump at the chance to do something.”

Ben laughs, the old memory coming to him with clarity. He was nineteen, not long graduated from Yale and home again in Setauket, teaching. Abe was home from King’s College on break, the two of them gathering with Caleb and Anna for a drink when news of the Boston Tea Party reached them.

_I hope that East India tea is happy at the bottom of the harbor_ , Ben said, a comment meant for his friends and overheard by Judge Woodhull, who harbored a growing frustration with Ben’s father for espousing his rebellious views from the pulpit. He was also irritated with Anna’s parents, which put stress on Anna and Abe’s new engagement.

_Careful with your words, Benjamin_ , Richard said. _Some people might find that treasonous._

Ben had stared Richard down—later drawing a strong approval from Abe, who butted heads with his father far more than Thomas ever did—finding himself unafraid of someone he perhaps should have feared.

_Defending my home from people who seek nothing but injustice could never be treasonous, Judge Woodhull._

Thomas Woodhull died a few months after, and everything changed.

“I remember,” Ben answers. “I think that’s when I lost all goodwill from him.”

Caleb sweeps the tent open after that, his hands full. “I come bearing gifts!” he exclaims. “And things I am very much going to make you eat, Benny boy. And you’d best do it, because a man told me Washington wanted to come by in a couple of hours. I doubt I could beat him back again.”

Ben can’t help but smile at this, thankful beyond words for...well _everything_ Caleb has done for him, guilt pressing at him at the thought that he could have endangered any of his friends and their ring.

If Caleb could hear his thoughts—and sometimes Ben does wonder—he knows his friend would tell him to be kinder to himself.

He listens to Anna and Caleb teasing one another over breakfast as they leave him to himself a bit as he eats, perhaps sensing he needs time to sort out his thoughts before Washington comes. Anna goes after they’re done, leaving Caleb to help him clean up.

“I think we're going to need to wash out this hair of yours before Washington gets here, Tallboy,” Caleb says, gesturing at Ben’s small wash basin.

Ben shakes his head, feeling more embarrassed than he likes. This was Caleb, there wasn't any need, but he feels so vulnerable and he doesn't like it when he can't take care of himself properly. “No, I'm all right. If we could just braid it I think...”

“No offense meant, yeah? But you've got dirt and I think your own blood in your hair. I don't care, but you _do_ care about looking like that in front of Washington.” Caleb puts a hand on his hip quirking one eyebrow. 

“I can't...I don't think I can stand and reach to do that,” Ben argues, feeling even more embarrassed now, his face growing flushed.

“Of course you can't, you stubborn bastard,” Caleb replies, his voice full of gentle affection through the teasing. “I'll do it for you.”

“You've done enough,” Ben tries. “You...”

“What's enough for my friend who got captured and shot and beaten up by the damned redcoats?” Caleb asks, an undercurrent of anger running under his words, not at Ben, but at André and Gamble and the British in general. “Don't make me call Anna in here ‘cause if she knows you refused me she won't be so gentle eh?” 

Ben smiles, giving a short sigh. “All right.”

Caleb goes out to retrieve some water, pouring half inside the basin and dipping some soap inside to make it lather.

“It’s cold, but we can’t do much better in an army camp unless we want to wait to heat it up,” he says, gesturing at Ben to sit down and tilt his head back. Ben complies, hearing Caleb wetting the comb before his friend starts brushing through the tangled strands with a careful hand. “All right?” Caleb asks.

“Fine,” Ben replies softly, feeling the need to return things to their normal state of affairs even if everything’s far from it. “So are all sailors so secretly talented with hair, or is that just you?”

Caleb keeps brushing through, moving slower when Ben winces as he catches a snag. “Think you’re funny now, do you?”

Ben closes his eyes, feeling as if he could fall asleep. “I think I’m fairly amusing sometimes.”

Caleb chuckles, putting the comb down and pouring more water over Ben’s hair to get some of the soap out. “Sometimes you are, Benny boy. Sometimes you are.”

They’re quiet for a stretch as Caleb moves his thumbs in circles around Ben’s scalp, getting out the peskier spots of dirt and blood and sweat.

“It’s not that I don’t think you can take care of yourself, you know?” Caleb phrases his words as a question, but Ben knows he’s not really meant to answer. “I know you can. And I know sometimes you have trouble letting people help you. But it’s me, yeah? Nothing to be afraid of.”

Ben reaches his hand back for Caleb’s, regretting it when his ribs shout in protest, but he squeezes his friend’s hand anyway, coming away with soap on his own fingers.

“I hope you remember that later if our roles reverse,” Ben replies, half joking and half serious. “You can be stubborn yourself sometimes, Lieutenant Brewster.”

Caleb laughs, flicking some of the water into Ben’s face before rinsing the last of the soap out of Ben’s hair.

Reaching behind him is too painful, so Caleb takes on the task of re-braiding Ben’s hair, too. He’s careful, and Ben hears him muttering under his breath about how complicated this is, trying not to laugh.

Caleb accidentally yanks and Ben gasps, surprised.

“Sorry, I don’t braid my hair like you fancy major _sir_ ,” Caleb gripes. He gestures at his own person. “Do you recall ever seeing a braid in this hair, huh? Should have gotten Anna to do this bit. Us sailors have the sense to just tie it back.”

Ben laughs—though it does make his ribs protest—and Caleb eventually gets it braided. He rummages around in Ben’s things, coming up with Ben’s shaving kit.

Ben puts up a hand. “Caleb you don’t…you’ve done enough.”

“No offense Tallboy,” Caleb says. “But a beard doesn’t suit you. And I know you don’t want one in front of Washington, anyway. That’s my job.”

Ben frowns, looking at the blade in Caleb’s hand. “…am I supposed to trust a man who treats his beard like his own child to shave me? The last time you shaved you were impersonating a redcoat.”

“Oh you’re funny now.” Caleb pulls the blade away, a grin playing at his lips. “Fine then.”

“No,” Ben replies, apologetic. “I trust you. Don’t make me laugh Caleb, it hurts my ribs.”

“Ungrateful bastard,” Caleb mutters affectionately, putting the shaving cream on Ben’s face.

He’s even more careful than Ben expects, and Ben’s reminded of when his father taught him how to shave, carefully showing him in the mirror, blade in hand.

_Smooth strokes_ , his father said. _Slowly, not too fast._

Caleb meets his eyes as he works, winking at him, and Ben’s grateful all over again, thinking that if Caleb weren’t here he’d have to ask one of his men for help, and he’s not sure he could make himself do that.

It was easier to bare himself to the person who knows him best, as opposed to men he’s meant to lead, even if they never would have minded helping him. 

“Can I have my waistcoat and coat please?” Ben asks when Caleb’s done.

“No can do,” Caleb answers. “Doc said those breeches and a loose shirt only for a few days, he doesn’t want to put too much pressure on your wound or your broken damn ribs, for that matter.”

“But Washington…” Ben protests.

“…has visited plenty of wounded officers before,” Caleb finishes. “He’ll be fine.”

“I’m not sure _I’ll_ be fine,” Ben mutters and Caleb shakes his head with exasperated fondness before sitting down on the cot next to him.

Caleb gives Ben that look he’s had since they were children, full of an amused affection that always warmed Ben even on the bad days. “You feeling all right?” he asks, and Ben knows he isn’t talking about the wounds.

“I keep thinking about André cleaning me up,” Ben answers, more candid than he really wants to be in the revealing light of day, moments from last night flooding back into his mind. “I…my apologies for…well…”

“Hey. What did I say a few minutes ago?” Caleb puts a hand on his face, one finger touching the small cut from where Gamble backhanded him. “Don’t you dare apologize for crying or whatever shite you were about to say. It’s me, Ben. I didn’t see anything last night I ain’t seen before.”

“This…” Ben struggles with his words, and he hates it. “This isn’t like anything else. I’m responsible for everyone’s lives, Caleb. Your life, too. I can’t…”

“Be a person who went through something?” Caleb cuts him off, as serious as he usually gets. “I’ve seen you bottle things up. It’s not good for you. And if it convinces you more, it’s not good for anyone else either. You get it out, it clears your head, yeah?”

Ben smiles now, his chest feeling a little lighter. “Yeah,” he echoes.

Caleb claps him on the shoulder, pressing another small glass of rum into his hands. “Though if I ever see Gamble again I’m likely to kill him with my own damn hands. You’re first in line, but I’m second, if you’re not there. Sneaky Tory bastard.”

Ben thinks of André’s horrified face when he saw what Gamble had done, the sight seared onto his brain. His feelings about André tumble around in his brain, jumbled. André was his enemy, but his enemy seemed so much more…filled out now. He wasn’t just a shadow of a man partly responsible for Sackett’s death or someone Ben was constantly hoping he could outwit to gain an advantage. He was also someone who loved. Someone who might have lost. Someone who….well Ben wasn’t entirely sure what he was fighting for, but he did suspect it might be a who, instead.

“Why do you suppose André hires men like Gamble or Simcoe or Rogers when he….” Ben pauses, thinking. “When he seemed so angry that Gamble would beat me like that?”

“I’d say he’s a man who wants to make use of monsters when he sees fit. We all do dirty things in this war. Hard things. But he won’t do it himself, will he?” Caleb pours himself a measure of rum, even if it’s early. “If you’re asking me if I can forgive him for what happened to you, I don’t think I can, Ben. I know this is war and maybe that’s not fair but…I can’t. It’s all right if you want to, though.”

Ben frowns, his thoughts going a mile a minute. “I’m not really sure that’s it. I just…well when I was there I couldn’t help but think of what would happen if our positions were switched. That they could have executed me and that we could execute him I know.” Ben pauses, grasping Caleb’s hand when he sees a shadow pass across his face at the mention of this. “But I thought for sure that…well I thought about Nathan and how they refused him everything, at the end. And how they stuck me down there in that dark room with no word to Washington, if Townsend hadn’t heard, and I hoped that…well I suppose I hoped Washington would treat him with more dignity. That we would.”

Ben’s mention of Washington must draw the older man toward them, because they hear his voice outside.

“Major?” Washington questions, and Ben can’t quite believe that _General Washington_ is asking permission to enter his tent.

“Come in, sir,” Ben answers, smoothing his shirt unnecessarily, catching a glimpse of himself in the small mirror nearby. The bruise on his nose spreads down partway to his cheek, the thin cut from Gamble backhanding him still red and the bags under eyes prominent.

At least he was clean shaven.

Washington steps inside, looking as put together as normal, making Ben feel even stranger. Washington takes the chair of Ben’s small desk, appearing somehow too tall for the tent. He looks at Caleb, who remains on the cot next to Ben.

“Think I’ll stay right here sir, if you don’t mind,” Caleb says in reply to the unasked question. “That way if you have any questions about how we got Ben out I can answer.”

Ben knows full well that’s not why, but he’d rather have Caleb here than not. Washington pulls a sheaf of paper and ink out of a case he carried in with him, but Ben’s not sure why he’d be taking notes unless he wanted them for his own reasons.

“How are you feeling today, Benjamin?” Washington asks, his Virginia drawl thick with what sounds like weariness.

“A bit better, sir.” Ben watches Washington uncap the ink, testing out his quill. “I apologize for not…being in a reasonable state enough to speak to you last night.”

“Well…” Ben hears anger simmering beneath Washington’s usual composure now. “Perhaps if our opponents saw fit to treat their prisoners better you would have been.” Washington looks up at him, and there’s more upset flickering in his eyes than Ben bargained for. “Now. I know largely the circumstance of how you ended up in André’s hands, and I would like to know everything of what occurred while you were there but first I’d like to ask you about these wounds and how you got them.”

“I will certainly tell you sir,” Ben says. “But first you should know that…well something was off with Major André sir. He was missing his braid, and that was something Shanks and Gamble both described to me before. I feel like it must mean something that it was gone. Perhaps a woman or…”

Washington holds up a hand, stopping him in his tracks, and Ben feels a flash of irritation. He certainly didn’t want to argue with Washington, but he has no trouble doing so, if he must. Today, though, he isn’t sure he possesses the energy.

“We can speak about hypotheses about André later,” Washington says. “For now, I’d like to focus on the first question I asked. That is of the utmost concern to me at present.”

Ben’s still not entirely sure why Washington’s asking him to start there, but he assents anyway, feeling Caleb’s eyes on him.

“Well, Gamble came down against André’s orders, sir,” Ben explains, feeling raw, hot, unchecked emotion bubbling up in his chest, his fingers grasping the cot as he wills himself calm, the memories of Gamble punching him and kicking him roaring to life in his mind like he’s experiencing them all over again. “He…well I tried to defend myself sir but I was not…quite in the right state. He struck me several times, then kicked me, resulting in two broken ribs. And he stepped on my bullet wound—he shot me a few days previous, when I tried to escape—in an attempt to make me give up Culper.”

Washington writes something down before looking back over at Ben, looking both surprisingly soft and urgent all at once. “You did not, I assume? Give him up, that is?”

Ben shakes his head. “No, sir.”

He does not say that the pain made him want to scream Abe’s name if only to make it stop, but he’d kept it at bay by remembering his friends, by remembering their words and their faces, all of that blocking out the agony of Gamble’s boot on his fresh bullet wound. He feels Caleb’s hand brush up against his, not taking it in front of Washington but reminding him he’s there.

“And where did they keep you?” Washington asks.

“At first in a room,” Ben tells him. “A bedroom of some kind. Later, in a lower room. Like a cellar, but with a window. Though…well they blocked out the light. I think so I couldn’t tell how much time had passed.”

“Hmm,” Washington mutters, and Ben sees his face twitch in that familiar way that indicates his anger. “They did not see fit to tell you the time or the day?”

“No, sir.”

Washington keeps writing, and then Ben realizes.

He was making notes to write a letter to General Clinton.

“And how did this beating end?” Washington asks, his voice low.

“Major André stopped it, sir,” Ben answers. “I think Abigail must have heard it and gone to retrieve him. I…you should know sir, that Major André was angry at Lieutenant Gamble for what he’d done, to the point where he helped clean me up himself.”

Caleb and Washington huff simultaneously, looking up at one another as if surprised they’re sharing the same reaction.

“Perhaps Major André shouldn’t have locked a prisoner in a dark room or have a man in his employ who would slit Mr. Sackett’s throat or beat my head of intelligence.” Washington meets Ben’s eyes, and Ben sees genuine upset there, mixing with the anger. “This is not to even mention that they never sent word they had you in their custody. Plain clothes or no, that is unacceptable for an officer of your rank. And General Clinton will know it.”

“Sir.” Ben holds up his hands apologetically. “I would ask you to reconsider.”

“Major,” Washington says, as soft as he’d been on that night when he explained how he knew the name Abraham Woodhull. “I am loathe to bring up something which might embarrass you, but I have never seen you in such a state as you were last evening. You are wounded and unwell. It is not acceptable to treat any prisoner of war as such, and certainly not one on my own staff.”

“I know sir,” Ben emphasizes. “But if you write General Clinton, who knows how they’ll take it, of what it will make them suspicious of from any small details André might have gleaned from me when I was there? I don’t want to put anyone in the ring at risk for my sake. My main point of concern is not that André realized anything that was true, but the paths he may follow of leads that aren’t. If you send them a letter you’re tacitly admitting the ring exists, and that people in it came to rescue me. They know it does, but I think it best for you not to admit it, even still.”

Washington sighs, lowering his quill. “I will consider it, Benjamin. Give me a summary of what occurred—from the beginning, if you don’t mind—and I will think it over if I sense any danger to the ring.”

In the end, Washington agrees with him, though not easily.

“If you are amenable I will come and visit you tomorrow,” Washington says, and even if Ben wishes Washington would just let him come to him, he doesn’t argue.

“Of course sir,” Ben replies. “If you’d like to know more about André himself, we can discuss that, too.”

“I would very much appreciate that.” Washington gives him a small smile, pressing Ben’s shoulder with a warmth that makes Ben feel guilt for doubting for a second that Washington wouldn’t do whatever in his power to have him returned. But those were dark hours in a dark room, and he tries not to blame himself. “Do get some rest.” Washington looks over at Caleb, and Ben thinks he’s trying quite hard not to look impressed. “I trust Lieutenant Brewster and Mrs. Strong will see to your care.”

Ben does smile now. “Undoubtedly, sir.”

Washington’s gone after that, leaving Caleb and Ben alone again. Been feels the exhaustion soak into his bones, and it doesn’t seem to escape Caleb’s notice.

“All right,” Caleb says, patting his back. “I think you need to sleep for a while.”

Ben scowls, even if he knows Caleb’s right. “I’ve only been up for two hours.”

“Yeah,” Caleb answers, sarcasm lacing his words. “And you just got back from being in captivity.”

“I need to talk to my men,” Ben protests, his eyes drooping even as he sits up, fighting the urge to fall asleep.

“Later,” Caleb whispers, coaxing Ben to lay back down and covering him with a blanket. “When you wake up I’ll call the sergeant in here and you can give him word for the men. Then you can watch Anna and I play draughts.”

Ben nods, smiling into his pillow before sleep captures him a minute later, and he falls into a deep, dreamless slumber.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more chapters to go! The next two will contain time jumps, as I'm drawing this through to André's capture and execution and how this change in canon affects interactions/happenings there. So you will be seeing André again!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben struggles with the ghosts of his captivity, growing restless. The ring gets news of the counterfeiting operation, and Ben finds his chance to start again as Gamble meets his end. Everything unravels at West Point as Arnold is revealed as a traitor and André is caught, bringing the two spymasters face to face again. Caleb confronts André.

A month later, they receive news from Townsend about the counterfeiting operation.

Caleb’s in Washington’s tent with Ben, hardly hearing what they’re saying. They’re half-arguing about why it took so long for them to get the information, but Caleb think’s Washington’s holding back some harsher words, still treating Ben like he’s fragile after everything that happened.

Caleb knows better.

He studies Ben, thinking he looks better, finally. He still limps slightly from the bullet wound, but the bruise has gone from his face, the thin cut healed over. His ribs were restored too, though Caleb saw the tiny bruises remaining behind, much better than Ben’s entire side colored purple. Ben does look paler than normal, his eyes holding a half-haunted look.

But Washington was reading it wrong.

Ben needed to _do_ something. He’d been stuck in his tent for three weeks, only falling back into a regular routine a few days ago when the doctor declared he could be off bed rest if he promised to take it easy. If they could find a way to track those counterfeiters, then maybe it could get Ben back into the swing of things.

They leave Washington’s tent a few minutes later, and Ben looks well enough to sound annoyed with his commanding officer, which heartens Caleb.

“Sometimes he doesn’t _listen_ …” Ben mutters. “It’s not as easy as he thinks it is…” He looks up at Caleb as if just realizing he’s talking aloud. “Do you think you really could track them?”

Caleb shakes his head. “No. They’d likely take boats. Tallboy, I’m sorry, I got to the dead-drop and back as quick as I could.”

“No, don’t apologize.” Ben smiles, sounding sorry where Washington won’t. “You got it back safely and it’s a good lead.” He contemplates Caleb, a question in his eyes. “Washington’s treating me differently, isn’t he?”

“Yeah he is a bit.” Caleb answers honestly, knowing Ben won’t appreciate being coddled right now. “But you went through the damn wringer, and he’s still sore about not being about to ream Clinton for it. He just doesn’t understand that’d you’d feel better if you could get back out there again.” Caleb pauses, looking at Ben. “Unless I’m wrong?”

“No, you’re right.” Ben sounds vague, as if lost in thought. “I think he worries I can’t do my job anymore,” he whispers, almost as if he doesn’t mean for Caleb to hear. “I can do it. I want to do it. I know he’s worried, I understand that, but I…I need to show him I can do this.”

Caleb claps Ben on the shoulder, his eyes catching on Anna several yards away. She at least, wouldn’t treat Ben like he was fragile. In fact she’d thought enough of his progress to get into a tiff with him about not letting her do enough in the ring now that she was in camp, and though frustrated, Ben almost looked pleased that she argued with him.

Bickering was normal, after all. And Ben seemed to crave normal.

“We’ll show him,” Caleb tells him. “He’s just concerned about you I think, and still sore that he couldn’t ream Clinton for what happened. But let’s say we go bounce it off Anna, yeah? See if she has any ideas.”

Turns out, Anna _does_ have ideas.

Caleb kisses her forehead, delighted when he realizes where the damned bloodybacks were set to try their counterfeiting scheme first.

Buying tobacco near Moodna Creek.

“Well what are you waiting for?” Anna asks. She smiles at Caleb before fixing her gaze on Ben, the smile growing into a grin. She seemed to know Ben needed this, too. “Give ‘em hell!”

Ben puts a hand on Anna’s back, looking grateful and slightly sheepish for arguing with her earlier, but she winks at him, letting him know it’s all right.

“You’ve got a knack for this,” Ben tells her. Ben was resilient, but he needed to put his energy somewhere, which made weeks of bed rest and too much time with this thoughts a bad prospect. “I’m sorry I was too stubborn earlier to remember.”

Anna presses a kiss to Ben’s forehead before ushering them both away, looking apprehensive and excited all at once.

“We’ll need to take a few more men with us,” Ben tells Caleb as they stride away from the tent. “We…”

“I’m on it,” Caleb finishes. “You ready for this?”

Ben gazes at a nearby fire, the sounds of camp surrounding them. The flames light up his eyes and he looks over at Caleb, something vibrant and alive flooding in his cheeks, finally giving  them more color than any other time in the past few weeks.

“Yes,” Ben says, nodding. “I’ve never been more ready.”                                                                                

* * *

 “Whatever else happens,” Ben’s saying to Caleb, feeling adrenaline rush through his veins. “The money gets burned.”

Caleb nods, making the arrow ready to light and launch toward the piles of counterfeit money, no one yet noticing them in the dark.

Then, Ben sees someone coming over toward an argument between the Patriot privateer and the British seller. The man moves out of the dark from one of the boats, his face clearer in the torchlight.

Gamble.

It was Gamble.

Ben reaches down toward the healed bullet wound, which still bothers him if he goes too fast, causing an occasional limp the doctor promises him will dissipate over the next few weeks.

Memories paint themselves across his brain in bright, vivid color.

Gamble seizing him from the ground by the collar, hot, sticky blood from the fresh wound running down down down onto the dirt. Faint, broken up images of Gamble taking him to a house somewhere on the road and shouting at a strange doctor to get the bullet out, dammit, because he had to travel with a prisoner. Gamble’s foot kicking his ribs again and again, finally stepping down on the bullet wound with malice.

Gamble telling him André would vanish him.

Ben had been half convinced he’d die.

But he hadn’t.

He hadn’t.

He was alive and able to stop this, at least, even if they can’t find the other shovers.

Caleb sees Gamble before Ben has a chance to say anything. He raises his gun, pointing it directly at the man in questions.

“No.” Ben pushes the gun down. “Don’t.”

Caleb stares at him, flabbergasted, a flicker of danger overtaking the usual warm look in his eyes.

He was one of the friendliest people around, but anyone who made the mistake of thinking Caleb Brewster couldn’t be dangerous were fooling themselves.

 “Are you kidding me?” Caleb whispers harshly. “He killed Sackett. He….you want me to keep still here after what he did to _you_ , Ben? That’s too much. I’ve _dreamed_ about killing this guy, all right?

“He’s André’s man,” Ben says, shutting his eyes against another wave of overly sharp memory, and he feels Caleb grasp his wrist. “He’ll know where the other shovers are going.”

Caleb sighs, studying Ben for a second before giving in. “Fine. But after that, he’s dead. End of story.”

Ben stands up then, shouting into the night. “Patriots! With us! Those are British counterfeiters.”

Everything breaks into chaos.

Gamble clearly sees Ben through the trees, and Ben feels everything focus utterly in on this moment.

“Get him, Benny boy,” Caleb whispers, and Ben rushes forward at the encouragement, feeling more like himself than he has in weeks as he runs toward a man who would have happily slit his throat if given permission.

He was doing something. After weeks of monotonous bed rest he was finally free, he was moving, he was somewhere other than trapped in the circular thoughts spinning through his head.

He doesn’t even give Gamble a chance to shoot him with the small cannon he carries, ignoring the slight pain in his abdomen and swinging his leg around so he knocks Gamble’s feet out from under him, sending the other man crashing to the ground. He draws his sword, the gunfire flying around him, overloud and ringing in his ears.

“Where are the other shovers?” Ben snarls, his sword pointed directly at Gamble’s neck.

Gamble laughs, the sound derisive and dark. “Well if it isn’t Major Tallmadge! Did General Washington finally let you come out to play again after your failure? Who came to sneak you out of Major André’s house huh? I’ll make sure to kill them too.”

Ben keeps his hands steady, pushing all the screaming memories toward the back of his mind, focusing on nothing but the man in front of him.

André was a good man. Even if Ben once struggled with believing any Loyalist could be, he…he understood the gray more, now.

Gamble was _not_ like André.

“Where.are.the shovers?” Ben asks again.

“Oh, wait until I tell Major André I laid eyes on you again,” Gamble says. “Wait until….”

Ben doesn’t let him finish, striking a blow to his face with his free hand and momentarily letting go of his hold on Gamble’s coat.

A mistake, he realizes.

Blood gushes from Gamble’s nose as he reaches for a knife hidden inside his boot.

“Or better yet,” Gamble continues, flicking it open. “I can just tell him I finally killed you and threw your body in the river like you deserve. Then maybe he’ll regret feeling so badly over me giving you a bloody nose. He sent me off to do this job because he said I couldn’t be trusted around _people_ anymore.”

_It was more than a goddamn bloody nose_ , Ben almost says. He tussles with Gamble over the knife, finally grabbing hold and stabbing down inadvertently, the blade going down into Gamble’s stomach.

“Where are the shovers!” Ben shouts again, hearing footsteps coming up behind him. “Where!”

Gamble tries talking, though nothing much but a furious sort of gurgling emerges. Ben remembers Washington’s irritation that he tried to hold back, the words _we received this news too late_ , emerging from his mouth even still. Ben punches Gamble again, remembering this man stepping on his bullet wound, pain threading through every crevice of his body.

_Who is Culper?_

Maybe they couldn’t catch the shovers. Not all of them.

But Ben had been in the belly of the beast, and they still didn’t know who Culper was. They still didn’t know about Townsend or Abigail.

That was a victory.

He needed to remember that through his late night doubts and all of his dark dreams.

He feels someone grab his wrist, the touch familiar.

“He’s gone Ben,” Caleb says and Ben looks at Gamble, seeing the life rapidly going out of him. He had a minute or two, at best.

Ben gets up from the ground, removing his sword from Gamble’s neck and looking at Caleb, his own voice sounding dangerous even to himself.

He looks Gamble directly in the eyes.

“Finish him,” he tells Caleb.

Caleb cocks his pistol, looking perhaps more furious than Ben’s ever seen him. The sounds of the remnants of the skirmish around them die down, leaving them in an odd space of eerie quiet punctured by the groans of injured and dying men.

The perpetual song of war—repeating the chorus over and over again and only changing the key.

“This is for killing Nathaniel Sackett,” Caleb growls. “But most of all for everything you did to Ben. Enjoy hell, you damned bastard.”

The shot goes off and Gamble’s body goes limp. Ben’s sharp memories fade, turning into watercolor images in his head and leaving him shaking. Caleb grasps his hand briefly, squeezing tight.

Gamble was dead.

But André and this scheme, the whole war itself, was still out there.

Despite the ghosts in his head, despite the voices questioning if he could do his job, he feels ready to fight, something about this small success jolting the confidence back into him. Even if Washington might be frustrated about receiving this news too late to make a full impact, receiving it all meant their spy ring was living and breathing and working. It meant they could improve. It meant…

It meant he hadn’t compromised it when André caught him.

He looks at Gamble’s unmoving form once more before taking the arrow Caleb hands him,  lighting it and stabbing it down into a bag full of fake Continental dollars, watching orange-red flames light up the night sky.

Perhaps they’d only stopped one group of shovers, but he senses something in the air, something he can’t quite name, rebellion bubbling up from the ground and through the atmosphere.

He’d felt like half of himself for the past few weeks, replaying those days in André’s house over and over again in his head. He wondered what he’d revealed with the tiniest movement, worrying even as he tried getting back on his feet, craving a way to start again.

This fight wasn’t over.

The ring wasn’t over.

And neither was he.                                                                               

* * *

  **Several months later. West Point**

Ben senses something wrong the moment he approaches Jameson’s office. He glances at the group of skinners milling around outside, his eyes catching on one who looks particularly suspicious.

He was wearing a pair of British royal officer’s boots.

John Anderson. That was the name Arnold read in that strange, mysterious letter he received yesterday.

Something wasn’t right.

Something told Ben that Anderson might in fact, be André.

But that meant….that meant Arnold was a traitor.

Was that….

Was that possible?

He knocks on the door, the red-haired man who must be Jameson glancing up in question, looking anxious.

“Colonel Jameson?” Ben questions, saluting him. “I’m Major Benjamin Tallmadge from General Washington’s staff.”

“Come in major,” Jameson says, and Ben steps into the room, a strike of lighting hitting him when he realizes there’s someone else here.

Someone without shoes.

 Someone who twitches at the sound of Ben saying his own name.

The man’s in plainclothes, and his long braid looks familiar, though less neatly done than Ben remembers André’s being.

It could be someone else, he tells himself. Another spy, another….

Anderson.

André.

Anderson.

_André._

The mysterious man doesn’t turn around just yet, and Jameson steps toward Ben, a nervous energy emanating from him as if knowing he’s made a mistake, he just doesn’t understand how.

“We heard the shots of the British ship in the harbor last night,” Ben says, slow, looking away from Jameson and back toward the mysterious second man. “And...who is this with you?”

“John Anderson, Major Tallmadge,” Jameson explains. “He had plans of West Point in General Arnold’s handwriting and was caught by those men outside…a misunderstanding that I…”

Anderson. Anderson. It was sloppy, it was…

It was unlike André, entirely.

If that man was André, then…

Why had he been so foolish?

What could have made him so desperate as to take papers, in particular, when he knew the outcome if he got caught? Without the papers there was a chance.

With them…

Well he’d be tried as a spy without question.

Ben remembers the missing braid and the upset in André’s eyes when he mentioned it, the tables between abruptly turning.

_Or should I say who?_

Ben holds up a hand and Jameson falls silent.

Ben pulls his pistol off his belt, cocking it and pointing it at John Anderson’s back, his heart thumping with loud, echoing booms inside his chest.

“Major Tallmadge!” Jameson exclaims. “What…”

Ben whips around, narrowing his eyes, keeping his pistol hand steady. “Did you not find it odd that a man came in here with no shoes? And that one of those men outside was wearing a pair of royal officers’ boots?”

“I…” Jameson stutters, his eyes widening.

“Turn around slowly, Major André.” Ben keeps his voice even. “Now.”

André gives in then, turning around and raising his hands in the air, his eyes locking with Ben’s.

André had plans from West Point.

Plans in Arnold’s handwriting.

Arnold was a traitor.

A _traitor._

Memories come roaring into Ben’s mind in over bright, vivid color.

Gamble whacking him in the head with a pistol.

The gun going off, the bullet striking him like fire.

Waking up in André’s house, his enemy sitting across from him.

Waking up later in that dark, lonely, claustrophobic room, trapped and wounded and ill.

The danger in André’s eyes.

And later, the empathy. The sorrow.

André’s voice as he caught onto the fact that Caleb was important to him.

Gamble screaming at him to tell him who Culper was as pain wrecked Ben’s entire body.

André’s hand connecting hard with his cheek, desperation and an edge of madness flashing before it vanished, the war simmering like a living thing between them.

André cleaning him up. André wiping the blood from his face with gentle hands.

André’s whisper.

_I wish I could say I could release you, Major Tallmadge. But I’m afraid unless you give me something there is very little chance of a way out for you._

He hadn’t expected that kind of empathy from a Tory. From his enemy. From the man who could have so easily had him killed.

And yet…

Ben shakes his head. There isn’t time for this. There isn’t _time_.

He has to get Arnold. He has to try.

“Put your hands out toward me,” Ben directs, a cold calm settling over his fury as he wills himself to focus. “Do you have any weapons?”

General Arnold was a traitor.

_Benedict Arnold._

And André the architect of the scheme, no doubt. Had this been going on when Ben was in André's custody? Had that been part of why André looked so desperate to turn him? Had the plan been falling through? Had André wanted to replace Arnold with him?

“No.” André shakes his head, looking more resigned than afraid, though there's a pinch of anxiety in his voice that betrays him, surprising for such a reserved man.

Ben puts the pistol back on his belt, taking the shackles they must have removed from André's hands earlier and placing them back on. 

 Ben feels strange as the manacles lock around André's wrists. He remembers André tying up his hands with rope, the memory pounding against his skull. He remembers André cutting it later on, looking ashamed for having slapped him. 

Ben's unasked question hangs in the air between them, and André meets his eyes again, both of them standing on the cliff of this moment, their roles utterly reversed. 

“Do you know where General Arnold went?” Ben asks, unable to keep the broken edge of rage and shock out of his voice. 

How had he not seen this? 

“No,” André repeats, clearly understanding it's best if he gives some answer rather than none. A flash of resignation passes across his face, mixed with regret.

“Colonel Jameson.” Ben turns around, met with the fearful gaze of the officer in front of him. “Do not, under any circumstance, let Major André out of your sight. I'll return shortly.” 

Ben runs. 

He jumps onto his horse without speaking to anyone or thinking anything but _get to the water_. Get to the water because that would be the best way for Arnold to escape, if he was going to make an attempt. André being here with Arnold nowhere in sight told Ben that was likely the case.

Arnold was a traitor.

André was here. 

The war was, perhaps, changed forever. 

He just didn't know in whose favor.                                                                                

* * *

 Caleb's never ridden so fast in his life. 

He's exhausted by the time he reaches West Point, his voice echoing into the air as he shouts at the guards near the gates.

“Lieutenant Brewster, second artillery!” he exclaims. “Get me Tallmadge, dammit!” 

The two men stare at him dumbly, looking shocked at his abruptness and his shouting. 

“Where is Major Benjamin Tallmadge?” Caleb asks, lowering his voice just a fraction. 

He doesn't have time for this. Arnold could be selling Washington or Ben or Hamilton or all of them down the river right this minute. 

He'd always known something was wrong with Benedict Arnold. 

If Arnold betrayed them and had the opportunity he might hand Ben right back over to....

 To John André. 

 If that happened, Ben was dead. Washington was dead. 

 That would be the end. 

 “I have urgent news that is the most pressing thing you could damn well think of!” Caleb shouts, and this seems to draw them from their stupor. 

“General Washington's in General Arnold's house, lieutenant. I think Major Tallmadge is there.” 

 Caleb gallops across the campus, his breath sharp in his chest as his lungs beg for air. He leaps off the horse when he reaches the house, throwing the reins at someone without even really looking at them. He bangs on the front door, the two sentries opening it and looking as surprised as the men at the gate.

“Sir!” Caleb shouts. “Sir!” 

The two guards still don't let him through so he pushes forward, bursting into the room, Washington already in the doorway, having gotten up at the sound of his voice. Caleb searches the room.

Washington, in front of him. 

Hamilton.

Lafayette.

No Ben.

 “Sir.” Caleb swallows back his terror. “Arnold is a traitor.”

Washington stares at him, shaking his head with disbelief, though there’s less in his voice, Caleb notices. “What?”

“Arnold is a traitor,” Caleb repeats. “It's all right here in this letter. Anna got it straight from André’s desk.” He pulls out the mentioned papers, showing them to Washington, who looks as someone has knocked him full in the face with something heavy. 

 “Sir?” Hamilton asks, but Washington doesn't quite hear. 

 Lafayette puts his hand on Washington’s shoulder, trying to draw him out of his shock, and Hamilton turns toward Caleb, looking concerned. He’d joined them a short while after the incident with André, inevitably finding out about it from working closely with Ben. It hadn’t been a secret besides, and Hamilton’s expression indicates he knows what Caleb’s first priority is right now.

“Brewster, go get Tallmadge and bring him back here.” Hamilton presses. “Before Arnold gets any ideas about getting his hands on him. We heard word of a John Anderson meeting Arnold here, and I think the major thought it might have been André. He didn’t say so exactly, but now that we’ve heard about Arnold I…well he was suspicious.”

André. _Here_. Near Ben.

 “Where?” Caleb asks.

“Jameson's office near the water,” Hamilton continues. “Not far from here.” 

Washington stalks past as Hamilton speaks, shouting something about locking West Point down, with no one in or out under any circumstances

Caleb doesn't possess the words to give Hamilton an answer, nodding before he rushes out the door, jumping back on his horse and galloping across the grounds. But before he reaches the office Hamilton indicated, he sees Ben a short distance away near the water.

He's standing near the docks, his pistol pointed out toward the water.

And at Arnold.

He fires, but it's too late; Arnold is already out of range. Arnold salutes Ben and Caleb burns with rage.

A general was a traitor. A general was a traitor and he’d worked with the man who’d had Ben in his custody. Who could have easily sent Ben off to be executed.

Caleb runs up to Ben and grasps him by the arm, making his friend jump.

 “Caleb,” Ben says, confused, but Caleb sees the angry tears glimmering in his eyes. “What...”

 “Anna brought the news about Arnold from Abigail,” Caleb explains, still not letting go. “I already told Washington that...”

 “Arnold is a traitor,” Ben finishes. “André is here. In Jameson's office. I have to go take him to Washington.”

“No you don't.” Caleb looks Ben in the eyes, making sure Ben hears him. “Let someone else do it, Ben. You don't have to. You don't.” 

“I do,” Ben insists. “It's my job.”

 “Ben….look.” Caleb swallows, remembering their conversation by the campfire after he pulled Ben out of the fight with Bradford.

_You know those officer types. Always shouldering burdens us foot wobblers don’t know about or can’t see._

“I know you think this is your burden,” Caleb continues, letting go of Ben’s arm. “But this…this in particular doesn’t have to be. Anyone would understand.”

Ben stops, tilting his head and giving Caleb that patented quizzical look before he grows softer. “Caleb. He...neither André nor anyone who works for him can hurt me here. You don't have to worry.” 

Caleb crosses his arms over his chest. “I'll decide what I worry about. Even if no one can leave marks on you, it doesn't mean it's good for you to be around him, Ben. I don't care that he cleaned you up when Gamble knocked you around. I care that he could have been the end of you, all right?” 

Ben smiles, and Caleb knows he's lost the argument. 

“I know,” Ben says. “I do.”

“Tallboy don't condescend to me,” Caleb replies. “I...”

“I'm not.” Ben grasps Caleb’s hand, giving it a squeeze before letting go. “I swear I'm not. But...it would mean a lot to me if you'd let me do this. And if you'd come with me.” 

Caleb relaxes just a touch. He's not sure he can contain himself when he sees André, but he's not going to tell Ben that because he wants to go. Ben could take care of himself and Caleb knew that, but he'd never been so frightened in his life as when he'd heard  _John André has Ben_  slip from Abe's mouth. 

“All right,” Caleb agrees. 

They stand together for a moment, the enormity of everything that was just revealed thrumming in the air. 

“Arnold,” Caleb whispers. “I feel like I should have seen that bastard coming.”

Ben nods, quietly wiping his eyes and sniffing way the tears of rage. “Washington knows?” 

Caleb nods. “I told him. He was still up at the house with Hamilton and Lafayette. Looked like he might faint.”

Ben nods again as they both get back up on their horses and ride swiftly toward Jameson's office, West Point a flurry of activity around them. People are shouting and guards are rushing toward the water, though Ben stops to tell them Arnold's rowed away, and they'll likely be unable to catch him. Ben sends one of them as a messenger to Washington to tell him so, as well as with the information that Ben will be bringing Major John André to him in a half hour at most. They arrive at what must be the place where André's being temporarily kept, a man with red hair pacing back and forth in front of a small wooden hut, looking nervous. 

“Major Tallmadge,” the man says, his voice high with anxiety. “Did you get General Arnold? Are you certain he's a traitor?”

“I'm certain,” Ben replies, his tone cold and cutting, and the man jumps at the reprimand. “And he's gotten away. Is Major André still inside?”

The red-haired man nods. “Yes sir.” 

Ben nods, taking a deep breath as if centering himself.  Caleb grasps his wrist, glancing around and wishing, wishing _wishing_ , that none of this had happened. Here was just one more hard thing Ben had to do. One more hard thing he had to watch Ben do. 

Suddenly, he sees someone through the window of the small building glancing out at them and looking curious. 

André. 

Something starts ringing in Caleb's ears. Something loud. Something that overcomes any and every instinct Caleb has telling him  _no_. 

All he can see is Ben laying on that tiny cot bruised and bloodied and weak. All he can see is Ben sobbing on his shoulder, worried he'd given up his friends. Worried that he was a coward. Worried that he'd broken his family. Their family. 

Caleb knows André hadn't laid his hands on Ben like Gamble had. But Caleb doesn't care. He was responsible. He was responsible and Caleb wants to knock his teeth out. He knows Ben doesn't feel the same, but he isn't Ben, and he never claimed to be. 

“Caleb?” he hears Ben question, the words muted under the chorus of rage in his head. 

Caleb storms into the hut, the door slamming open. André jumps in response to the sudden sound, though he still has his back to them. 

“You son of a whore,” Caleb growls, clenching his fists and stopping himself from shoving André over. 

André doesn't react like Caleb wants him to. He only turns his head slowly around, raising his eyebrows and looking deeply, unfathomably sad. 

“Lieutenant Brewster, I assume?” he asks, kinder than Caleb expects, though danger emanates from him all the same. 

“Damn right,” Caleb answers, feeling Ben's hand on his back. Caleb feels his entire body buzzing, emanating with an energy that doesn't let him stay still, clenching and undoing his fists in rapid succession. 

“Caleb, please,” Ben says, only half as stern as he might have been, seeming to understand why Caleb feels the way he does. 

André turns fully around now, seeing the expression on Ben’s face, and Caleb senses this is a man who knows he's doomed. 

Or likely doomed, anyway. 

Something about it makes him go quiet, the wave of that sudden, blinding rage pulling away and leaving a heaviness in its wake. 

“You're here to take me to General Washington I assume, Major Tallmadge?” André asks, and Caleb marvels at the calm the other man feigns. 

He can't _really_ be calm. 

“Yes,” Ben answers, and Caleb can tell he's feigning calm too. Not as well as André, but better than Caleb thinks he can manage. “Do I have your cooperation?”

“I am not fool enough to attempt an escape in broad daylight surrounded by the Continental Army,” André responds, and it almost sounds like a joke. Caleb feels André’s eyes land on him, though he doesn’t yet speak to his curiosity. “You have my assurance.”

Ben nods, looking as if he wants to say something to André but doesn’t know what, empathy littered among the embers of anger buried not so deeply in his eyes. “I need to secure a cart to take you to Washington and then where he directs me to keep you. I’ll be a few minutes, but Lieutenant Brewster will remain.”

_I’ll what,_ Caleb almost says, swallowing back the words.

Ben steps in front of Caleb so André can’t hear them, whispering close in Caleb’s ear.

“I’ll be five minutes. Ten at best,” Ben says. “I know you want to knock him in the teeth.” Ben stops, the barest hint of amusement in his voice. “But please, for me, just watch him until I’m back. I…well I don’t have to tell you how crucial this is.”

“You ask too much, Tallmadge,” Caleb mutters, but he nods in agreement, watching Ben cast a single glance at André before stepping back outside.

André’s eyes linger on Ben as he goes, a mix of intrigue and fear and empathy and anger in his eyes all at once.  
  
“He’s better man than you could ever even think of being,” Caleb growls into the silence, not liking the way André watches Ben go. “Don’t look at him like you think he’s less than you.”  
  
André raises his eyebrows again, looking taken aback by the vitriol. “I meant no offense, lieutenant. I think Major Tallmadge an honorable officer and an intelligent spymaster. In fact I’d say he has decidedly outplayed me at this game.”  
  
Caleb doesn’t care for André’s tone there, feeling certain he knows something.  
  
Something like Culper’s real name.

Which secret did he know?  
  
_It’s all right_ Caleb tells himself. _He’s here. We have him. Abe is safe. Abe is…_  
  
The truth was Abe wasn’t safe unless he was secure behind rebel lines or André was dead. Not if André knew his name.  
  
Caleb doesn’t know for sure. He only knows he feels it.  
  
 André studies Caleb now, and Caleb likes that even less. “I…assume you were the one who broke into my house?” André says with the air of one making conversation.  
  
“Yeah I was the one who  _broke into your house_ ,” Caleb answers in a sarcastic whisper. “Not bad for half a privateer, wouldn't you say?”   
  
Silence rests between them like a heavy cloud, the noise outside growing louder and more dissonant as panic swells into the air.  
  
Benedict Arnold was a _traitor_.  
  
The two of them survey each other again, and Caleb certainly won’t be the one to look away first.  
  
“I understand you must have been angry about Major Tallmadge's condition,” André says, surprising Caleb, but he’s still _too calm_. “I am sorry that happened. And I take responsibility for Gamble's deeds. It was…” André swallows, regret in his eyes, the regret Ben told Caleb about, though now it could be regret about so many other things. “It was an unfortunate situation.”  
  
Something in Caleb bursts at André’s calm and he stalks over from where he was lingering near the doorway, stepping closer to the other man and meeting his gaze so he can make his point clear. “Ben said you were sorry,” Caleb replies with a sharp-edged smile that disappears in an instant, and he sees the gleam of intrigue in André's eyes at that information. “And maybe he can forgive you, but I can't. It was just  _unfortunate_  for you. I don’t care that we’re at war, Major André. My friend ain't your chess piece.”  
  
André raises a hand, looking frustrated. “It was more than just unfortunate. Kindly don't assume you know my thoughts, lieutenant. I never intended to have anything like that happen to Major Tallmadge.”  
  
Caleb shakes his head, unimpressed, looking away and flicking some dirt off his coat sleeve. “I don’t care what you intended.”  
  
Caleb feels slightly like a hypocrite here; they'd kept Simcoe without any word and without the direction of a commanding officer, but Simcoe had been a monster from the beginning.  
  
Ben wasn't.   
  
“I'm sure you were furious we didn't write Washington right away,” André replies, and Caleb hears the condescension dripping off his words. “But Major Tallmadge was in plainclothes,” he continues, as if this is a defense, when Caleb knows full well Washington wouldn't create a circumstance where a fellow officer would be beaten like that. “There are less rules in that circumstance, which I knew full well when I took the risk I did today. I'm sure he did as well.”   
  
Caleb steps away from André, leaning against the table that must serve as Jameson's desk and crossing his arms. He studies André and André gazes back, tilting his head. “I think you're telling me what you think I want to hear, major. Doing that isn't going to change what I think of you. I see through it, yeah? Don’t waste your show on me.”

André furrows his eyebrows. “And…what exactly do you think of me, lieutenant? Indulge my curiosity.”

Caleb hates how damn _calm_ this man is, because it can’t possibly be real.

 “I think you want people to see you in a certain way,” Caleb says. “It’s why you won’t do any of your dirty work yourself. You’ll get other people to do it, but you won’t have the real war under your fingernails while you’re having tea. That would be…distasteful, as you’d say.”  
  
André stares at him as if attempting to stop his gaze from turning into a glare. “We’re in a dirty business, Lieutenant Brewster. I think my willingness to take that on at all refutes your argument.”  
  
Caleb leaves his post, volcanic heat spreading through his veins, and he clenches his fists to contain it as he stalks back over to André. “Sure we are, but at least Ben and I are honest about it. I saw how damned dirty  _you_  were, didn’t I? Even if your fingernails are clean. Keeping _my friend_ in that dark room while he was wounded and sick. You went upstairs and then your man came down and beat him while you what? Hosted a party for General Clinton?” Caleb knows André didn’t send Gamble down there but _he doesn’t care_. He cares that he hired Gamble at all. He cares that he kept him close after what happened to Sackett. “We’re all the same in these colonies, to you. People to use when you need them and then you can toss ‘em out when you feel like it.”  
  
Something flashes in André’s eyes, his voice hoarser and sharper than before, and Caleb realizes he's stuck a nerve. “That isn’t true.”

André twitches, clenching his jaw as if fighting something off. All Caleb can see is Ben covered in blood and bruises, the light outside searing his eyes from being locked in the dark. The memory of it strikes a raw nerve in Caleb still, months later.

He remembers coming back to camp and hearing about Sackett's death, Ben’s furious, broken voice cutting into the night against the crackling of the nearby campfires.

_Sackett is dead._

_What?_

_You were right about the bloodyback lying._

That was all André's fault. 

Caleb leans as close as he might to André, still not touching him—he's not fool enough to get in trouble for that—and André grasps the arms of his chair until his knuckles pop white. Caleb watches André’s statuesque expression crack, some of the infuriating calm receding.

“Are you afraid now?” Caleb whispers. “Just like Ben was in that cellar. Just like Sackett was when Gamble slit his throat. You think I'm a brute like Rogers or Simcoe or Gamble, may he rest in hell. You may think I’m below you because of who and what I am, but I’m no monster. Ben understands the difference between someone willing to do the hard things and someone who's in it for the blood. I can’t say the same for you.”

 André clears his throat, not answering the question. “I would ask you to back away, Lieutenant Brewster.”

“You don’t have to worry,” Caleb interrupts before André can say anything more. “Because Ben would never leave someone here who would hurt you, even if they could. Ben never sends other people to do his dirty work. You thought you could turn Ben because he’s just some  _minister’s son_. Green. Weak.” Caleb meets André’s gaze again, still seeing fear in the notorious spymaster’s eyes. “But you underestimated him. Ben  _sees_ the people he works with. You don't.” 

They stare at each other until the door opens and Ben steps inside. Caleb backs away and Ben looks between the two of them with concern, though he doesn’t speak to his curiosity, clearly sensing the tension but lacking the space in his mind to do address it given everything going on.

They put André in the cart, all of West Point staring at them as they go by. André sits with his back to them, so Caleb takes a chance, putting a careful hand on Ben’s shoulder.

“Don’t go thinking you didn’t see Arnold coming because of what happened with André,” Caleb whispers. “None of us saw it coming. None of us could have.”

Ben smiles in return, taking one glance back at André, and Caleb sees the mixture of anger and empathy pooling in his eyes, creating a conflict.

Caleb understands that Ben feels differently about André than he does, though he also knows even that wasn’t simple.

Still, he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to hold anything but antagonistic toward the man who could have easily taken Ben from him, even if Ben doesn’t feel the same.

He supposes he’ll just have to be easy with the difference.  
                       

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter left! Thank you for the kind comments and kudos, everyone! I hope you enjoyed this and be on the lookout for the final chapter soon.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben and André talk after the latter is sentenced to death. With the help of his Culper family, Ben emerges from the trauma of his captivity, even as he feels conflict over André's impending execution. André meets his fate as Ben does him a final kindness. In the shadow of death, Ben and Caleb look forward, the war still in front of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are at the last chapter! I hope you have enjoyed, and thank you to all for the feedback! I am thinking of writing a follow up to this concerning how this change affects the aftermath of Caleb's captivity with Simcoe, so possibly stay tuned for that!

** Chapter 6 **

 The court sentences André to death.

That doesn’t surprise Ben.

What he is surprised about is his conflict over it.

He watched Hamilton shake André’s hand before locking himself away for most of the day, something about André’s impending death striking somewhere deep for him. He’d spoken out against it to Washington, looking uneasily at Ben when he did so. Hamilton never looked uneasy about _anything_ , so it was strange for Ben to witness.

_I hate to see such a fine officer ended,_ Hamilton said in quick explanation, something about André clearly having drawn him in. _Though I understand why you disagree with me, Tallmadge. I really do._

Hamilton was scarcely so…gentle when he disagreed with someone, and he’d looked between André and Ben with concern.

Everyone was looking at him like that, now that André was here. 

Part of Ben feels angry. Angry that he hadn't seen Arnold and André coming. Angry that there had even been a question about André's fate after what happened to Nathan. After what happened to _him_ , as well as what he barely avoided. 

Part of him feels distraught, because he can't erase that image of André cleaning the blood off his face from his mind. He can't erase that sad look in André's eyes from his memory. 

If he'd never been trapped in that dark, dirty room with his enemy, he might feel less conflicted over his enemy's doomed fate. 

Ironic. 

_But sir, they didn't comment on the manner of his death_ , Ben said to Washington a few minutes ago. 

_That has been left up to my discretion_ , Washington answered before showing him the letter threatening retaliation against American prisoners of war. 

Arnold. 

_You don't hang the adjutant general of the British army without consequences_ , Washington said yesterday. 

_I know, sir,_  Ben replied.  _But he had plans to West Point, and if you find documents, that's generally the outcome unless there's an exchange, and there won’t be unless Clinton hands over Arnold. I also have concerns that André knows Culper's identity. I don’t think I need to explain the danger that presents._

Washington had looked at him then in a softer way than before, and Ben knew what his commanding officer was thinking without him saying anything, knowing he needed to get his point across.

I _know you might think I'm saying this because of what happened to me in his custody, and that he could have very easily had me executed,_ Ben had said. _But this is not retaliation. It's about keeping our own people safe. That's my job, sir._

Clinton wasn't going to save André from his fate. 

Ben remembers André's own words about Clinton, how he seemed so sure, then, that Clinton would defend him and that Washington wouldn't do the same with Ben. 

That, at least, appeared to be quite wrong, no matter what a favorite André was with the general.

He wonders how Clinton will live with that, later.

He remembers Washington questioning André, apparently having listened to Ben’s information about the braid.

_Major Tallmadge mentioned that...you had changed something about your personal appearance. Does that have anything to do with this?_

André's face had remained utterly composed, without even a crack to give himself away. _Major Tallmadge is a smart man, General Washington. But I'm afraid that was just a personal choice, and nothing more._ Ben wanted to scowl at him, then. But really, he was impressed at his ability to remain cool under pressure.

_Major Tallmadge was not treated kindly in your custody,_ Washington added, a clear reprimand in his voice. _You can be certain nothing like that will be repeated here._

_I do apologize for that, General Washington_ , André answered. _I will not offer my excuses, only my regret._

Night falls, and Ben finds himself treading the path to the tent where they’re keeping André. His execution was set for tomorrow after Abigail was meant to arrive with André’s uniform. Ben’s not even entirely certain what he’s doing here—he only knows that he needs to be here, for himself more than anything else, perhaps. The sentries allow him inside and he finds André sitting at the small table, shutting a sketchbook as soon as Ben enters.

“Major Tallmadge,” André says, casual, but with the tiniest break in his voice. “I didn’t expect you.”

“I…” Ben stumbles, unsure what he even wants to say. “Abigail is meant to bring your uniform in the morning, I believe. General Washington wanted you to know your request was being honored.”

André nods. “I thank you, sir.”

Ben thinks André looks strange in the muted plainclothes, appearing out of place without the red coat and blue and gold braiding. Ben only saw him out of uniform once—and unintentionally—when André came down in his nightclothes to stop Gamble. André studies him, a tiny, seemingly impressed smile curving his lips.

 André shakes his head, chuckling in a wry, sad way. “A cabbage farmer. Of course. Setauket. It always goes back to Setauket. He was in my house and I didn't even suspect. Who else didn't I suspect, Major Tallmadge?”

André _did_ know. Ben and Caleb had both been right about that. 

A shudder runs down Ben's spine at how close they'd come to Abe possibly being in this situation, instead of André.

So, _so_ close. If André hadn’t been caught, if he hadn’t made these mistakes, Abe might be awaiting the gallows tomorrow, instead.

Ben doesn't answer the question, because he can't admit the truth about Abe even if André knows it. Every moment André lives, Abe is in danger. And that meant Mary and Thomas were in danger. Abe was Ben's friend. Abe was Ben's _family_. Ben had gotten Abe into this, and he couldn't risk André uttering Abe's name to another soul. 

He'd learned with Simcoe that people get away. People escape. Things come out, and he won't let it happen again.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Major André?” Ben asks. 

André smiles wider, and part of Ben wishes this man didn't have to die. This man whose place he could so easily be in. 

No one understood his burden like his enemy. 

But the court had convicted him. Ben himself had advocated for it. No matter how conflicted he feels, this was his job, and he’d signed up for the hard parts when he agreed to the post, just as much as the victories.

“A spy until the end, aren't you?” André asks, a twinkle of interest in his eyes. “Well, played, sir.” He pauses, studying Ben again. “Have a drink with a doomed man, Benjamin?” 

Ben looks at André skeptically for a moment, and then he remembers everything the British denied Nathan the night before he died. 

He finds he can't do the same. Perhaps André didn't want a bible, but he did want conversation with someone else. 

Ben wonders again about the braid. 

He wonders if there was a woman. He can feel the idea coming together in the back of his mind, but he can’t quite put the pieces together.

He sits down, pouring himself a glass of the Madeira someone's brought, the sound of the liquid hitting the glass louder than it ought to be, the memories of everything that happened in André's cellar—The sights, the images, the sounds—roaring in a muted chorus in the back of his mind. 

“Your friend Brewster is clever,” André says. “Though I don't think he feels the same about me.” 

Ben lets himself laugh. “I don't think he finds your cleverness in doubt, sir. I think…well…” Ben almost stops himself from being candid, but what was the point, really? There was plenty he would never risk telling André, but this wasn’t a secret. “I think it can be more difficult for those who care for us to forgive things than it is for ourselves. And that’s all right.”

“He cared enough about you to risk himself coming into New York City,” André replies, taking a sip of his drink, and Ben spies the sketchpad again, wondering what’s inside. “That's a risk that...” he pauses as if he almost wants to say something, but he doesn't. “Well. I don't know if someone would have taken that risk for me. I fear I’ve lost the person who would have. Perhaps I should have considered that.” He pauses, looking at Ben. “You know, I tried to convince you Washington wouldn't do anything to save you. I suppose it turns out Clinton won't sacrifice to save me. I was wrong about that, but then, I've been wrong about a great deal.” 

Ben wants to say he’s sorry, but it’s not as simple as that. André was responsible for a time that left marks on Ben that might never completely fade. He was responsible for Sackett’s death. He was partly responsible for the destruction of Ben’s dragoon unit. He was a clear and present danger to Ben’s friends, to Ben’s soldiers, to Ben’s core beliefs, and to the outcome of the war itself. He could have easily been responsible for ending Ben’s own life. Ben is angry at him.

Yet a part of him _does_ feel terribly sorry for him. Ben didn’t agree with all of his tactics, but André was an honorable man. A brave officer. Someone who understood the intricacies of his work.

Now, he was a casualty of war.

So much has happened since those days in André’s house. Ben thinks of the attack on Fort St. George, possible through Townsend’s intelligence. No matter what happened, Ben had kept doing his job. He’d kept _fighting_.

André seems to sense Ben’s conflict, speaking again into the quiet. “If you advocated for my execution, major, don't trouble yourself over it. I can't say I wouldn't have done the same if you hadn't found your way out of my house. I would be a liar if I said otherwise, and I see no reason to be dishonest. We both know what line of work we’re in, and the magnitude of it.”

Ben nods at him, taking a sip of his wine so he has something to do. Ben decides to let André lead the conversation, because he’s not certain what he ought to say to a man with hours left to live. A man that in the end, he barely knows at all.

“I hope your recovery upon your return to the army didn’t take too long,” André says, one hand going to rest atop the sketchpad as if longing for something inside, his fingers itching to draw. “I do apologize, again, for what happened with Lieutenant Gamble.”

“I was ill for a time.” Ben lets go of his glass of wine, hiding his hands under the table so André doesn’t see him clenching and unclenching his fists, an old habit that lessens his nerves, renewed after everything that happened in that cellar. “I’m afraid I cannot apologize for the fate Gamble met. That would make _me_ a liar.”

“He knew the risks of our particular business,” André replies. “And I perhaps gave him too much power to do as he might. I think Lieutenant Brewster might have been right on that account.”

Ben looks around the tent, finding it utterly dark other than the two candles resting in the center of the table where they sit, a slice of moonlight coming in through the flap. The sounds of the camp creep in: the crackling of fires, a burst of laughter, muttered conversations, all combining into a single familiar background noise.

Ben’s eyes land again on the sketchbook. “You draw?”

André’s eyes flit down to the sketchbook, though he doesn’t open it. “I dabble. I think my flute playing is better than my drawing, if I’m being frank. You?”

Ben shakes his head. “No. I used to think myself a poet when I was younger—my friends did tease me for it—but I never was a hand at drawing. My father is, though.”

Things go quiet again as they both sip their wine. André speaks again, sounding more vulnerable than Ben expects.

“Why are you here, Major Tallmadge?” he asks. “I…I am not opposed to having someone to talk with, but I am curious at seeing you here.”

Ben puts his hands back on the table, folding them tightly together. “I don’t…altogether know. I suppose I only knew I might not like to be alone.”

André almost smiles. “So you sought to give comfort to the enemy?”

“We are very different,” Ben replies. “There is a great deal upon which we don’t agree. But I find you an honorable officer, Major André. You helped me when I was in your custody, and you didn’t have to. A great many things from those few days trouble me, but that was a moment of kindness from you I cannot forget. And I thought of what happened to Nathan, and how he was denied comfort, in the end. I found I couldn’t do that.”

André studies his wine, not looking at Ben just yet. “You have more honor and more courage than your fellows that I’ve managed to turn,” André answers, and Ben _burns_ again with anger at Arnold. “I find I cannot forget that, either.”

“I am not sure if either of us could ever be asked to forgive the other.” André looks up at Ben now, and Ben feels a strong wave of that conflict wash over him again, feeling rage and empathy all at once, knowing that the man in front of him is dangerous to not only his cause, but to his friends, knowing that if the roles were reversed as they once were, he might be the one facing the gallows tomorrow. He thinks of how angry and how full of grief he’s felt every time he witnessed an execution—inevitably thinking of what happened to Nathan—and yet here he is. “But I think we understand. And that’s…I think that’s important.”

André nods, raising his glass in Ben’s direction and remaining silent.

A question that’s been bothering Ben since he laid eyes on André comes forward, and Ben finds himself asking it before he really considers. “Why did you take the papers? When you knew it would increase the chance of this outcome?”

Something in André’s normally lively face goes blank, and Ben thinks perhaps the other man isn’t willing to answer that question.

“Ask me again in the morning, major,” André says, tapping the sketchbook with his hand once more, seemingly unconsciously. “Perhaps I’ll have an answer for you then.”

Ben takes that as his cue to leave, walking slowly back across camp and toward his own tent, seeing light spilling out from underneath the bottom as he approaches, the sound of amused, bickering voices reaching his ears. He throws open the flap, finding Caleb and Anna inside playing draughts.

Caleb keeps his eyes trained on the piece he’s contemplating, but Ben hears the concern in his voice. “And just where have you been, Tallboy?”

“And just what were you saying to Major André back at West Point?” Ben deflects, asking the question Caleb hasn’t answered any time Ben’s asked over the past few days.

“Boys,” Anna chides absentmindedly, moving her piece much more quickly than Caleb moved his.

“I was just telling him what he needed to hear, yeah?” Caleb answers, looking over at Ben now.

“Well, perhaps that’s what I was doing.” Ben sits down on his cot, taking off his boots and his coat, shrugging the tension out of his shoulders. “Just my version of it.”

“Are you all right, though?” Caleb asks, more serious now.

“I’m all right,” Ben echoes, sparing both of them a smile despite his exhaustion. “Who’s winning the game?”

“Me,” Anna says, laughing when Caleb shoots her a look. “Caleb only thinks he is.”

Ben warms at the sound of their laughter, stretching out across his cot, his friends content to let him drift off as they keep playing, neither of them likely to leave him alone tonight. He closes his eyes, thinking of André’s dark tent and the way André mused aloud about whether or not there was anyone who might think of rescuing him, even if they couldn’t accomplish it. André was a favorite everywhere he went, so Ben had heard, and yet….

Yet he still seemed so alone, somehow.

Ben cracks his eyes open, looking once more at Caleb and Anna, thinking of Abe and Samuel and his father.

Even in the dark terror of that cellar, surrounded on all sides by his enemy, he’d never been alone.

Not even for a moment.                                                                               

* * *

 

Ben isn't sure what to say to Abigail when he sees her. 

He greets her with Anna, thanking her for all her work, though from the look on her face he wonders if she feels guilt over André's fate. He walks with her toward André's tent, stopping her a few feet outside. 

“Thank you for your help that day,” he whispers, not touching her for fear she might not appreciate it, so many secrets resting between them for how little they really know one another. “If you hadn't alerted Major André I....I'm not certain what would have happened to me. You might well have saved my life. Anna tells me I am not as appreciative of women’s efforts as I ought to be, sometimes, and she’s probably right. I’m trying to correct that and widen my view of what women can do in the war. You…you’re one of the bravest people I’ve yet met, Abigail. Thank you for…everything you’ve done for us.”

She does smile at him now, and he feels honored by it. “You're welcome, Major Tallmadge.” 

He follows her into the tent, watching her hand the uniform over to André before giving them their space, though when he takes a glance back he sees them embrace, not really wondering at it. André had been the one, after all, to let Cicero come live with them. It made sense that Abigail would care for him, even as she was spying for the other side.

He hears Abigail crying as he waits outside the tent.

“Don’t cry,” André tells her. “It’s all right.”

It wasn’t, of course, but Ben admires his courage, feeling pained again even as he knows there’s not a choice in this matter. Not really.

In a matter of minutes he's in the carriage with André, and when the door shuts it's just the two of them, fate waiting ahead. 

Ben notices a page in André's hands. A page from the sketchbook last night, he realizes, containing a self-portrait and a set of eyes. 

A woman's eyes, he thinks. 

“If you might indulge my curiosity.” André speaks, surprising Ben, though he prefers it to the thick, heavy quiet. “When did you first hear my name?” 

“I remember it well,” Ben answers. “It was in the winter of '77. From Mr. Sackett.”

André nods, studying Ben again in that way of his. “I remember when I first heard yours, too. When I got word of Robert Rogers firing under flag of truce during a prisoner exchange, and later news of him tussling with the young  _upstart_  dragoon he'd been searching for, a certain Benjamin Tallmadge. I hadn't heard your name when Lee passed on the information about your dragoon unit, only the location.” André pauses, his hand grasping the sheet of paper tighter, and Ben looks once more at the eyes. “Of course, I didn't know you were head of intelligence then. I only knew that there was a spy ring operating in York City. I heard your name again when Gamble arrived after infiltrating your camp. And then I knew. That same dragoon was Washington's new head of intelligence.” 

André doesn't seem done talking so Ben stays quiet, the carriage rumbling beneath them as they hurtle toward André’s end.

“I suppose that attack on your unit must have been part of what spurred you toward creating the spy ring,” André continues. “Was it?” 

Ben raises his eyebrows, impressed at the connection. “It was.” He stops, gathering his words. “I fight for my country. For my home. You fight for your king. I want you know, Major André, that I see the honor in both.” 

André releases a breath through his nose, sounding only a smidge bitter. “You asked me last night why I took those papers. Well the truth is I didn't do it for a king. I did it for a woman. It's that loss I regret most, more than my own life.” 

Ben looks down at the drawing of the eyes again, and then, he realizes.

His memory goes back to Washington questioning André a few days ago, and the conversation about Peggy Arnold.

Or as she was previously known, Shippen. 

Peggy Shippen was the woman André loved. 

She must have been....well he's not certain what role she played exactly, but she must have been a go-between with André and Arnold and something had gone...well, terribly wrong. Clearly. 

Ben locks eyes with André again, and André flinches just slightly, seemingly realizing he might have said too much and put someone he loved in danger. 

Ben was well aware of what that felt like, remembering his fear over André latching onto his clear love for Caleb, a single flinch giving away years of affection.

He's not sure he can ever forgive, exactly, what happened in that cellar. 

But he does understand, and as he thinks once again of André cleaning him up, as he thinks as he thinks of Nathan hanging from that tree without any of the comfort he asked for, Ben makes a decision. 

“I will make certain she knows she ought to cross the lines to Tory held land as soon as she's able,” Ben says, very soft, and André's eyes go wide in surprise. “You needn't worry about me telling anyone of whatever role she played in this. She’ll be safe.”

André’s hands give the slightest tremble as he grasps the paper with one and his breeches with the other. “Thank you, Major Tallmadge,” he says, his voice steady and quiet, already sounding far away.

Ben nods, and then, they arrive.

They climb out of the carriage, holding one another’s gaze.

André puts out his hand for Ben to shake.

Ben’s aware of the crowd around them, every single eye watching his reaction to André’s offer.

He shakes André’s hand, noticing how cold the other man’s fingers are, as if preparing for the life to leave him.

He joins the crowd, Caleb stepping up beside him and standing as near as he might, the two of them shoulder to shoulder. Ben takes comfort in the closeness. He feels the urge to reach for Caleb’s hand, knowing that he can’t in the presence of so many people. He can’t look like he’s conflicted. He can’t look afraid or tired or any form of vulnerable.

He thinks he’ll never forget what André says before he drops.

“I pray that all of you bear me witness. That I died a brave man.”

He sees André lift his blindfold, glancing toward someone in the crowd.

Peggy Shippen.

Ben chances a subtle glance in her direction, seeing her holding something in her hand.

The braid.

André doesn’t die quickly.

Ben thinks again of how easily this could have been him. He thinks of Nathan and wonders if anyone cut his suffering short. He thinks of how it might feel to be hanging there in the dark, knowing everyone was watching you die.

Those thoughts propel him forward, hearing Caleb just a few steps behind, both of them pulling on André’s legs.

Then, he’s gone.

Ben feels vaguely ill, Caleb sticking close to him as murmuring breaks through the silence in the crowd. Ben pulls the drawing out of his coat pocket—André handed it to him as he stepped out of the carriage—and whispers in Caleb’s ear.

“Just give me a moment?” he asks. “Wait for me, though. I don’t…” he doesn’t quite finish, but Caleb knows what he means.

_I don’t want to be alone._

Peggy must sense him approaching, looking up as he comes near. Tear stain her eyes red as she clasps the braid, pulling it back and away from Ben as if fearing he’ll snatch it from her. He remembers their dance at Arnold’s home two months or so after he returned from captivity, her smile friendly and vivacious.

She looks so very different now.

Part of him wants to be furious at her—she’d played a part in the betrayal that could very well harm their war efforts—but right now she’s just lost the person she loved most in the world, whatever their story was, and he can’t feel anything but sorry for her.

“His thoughts were with you, in the end,” he tells her before handing her the drawing, which she accepts with a shaking hand. “I wanted you to know that.”

She just keeps looking at him, clearly confused; she must know he’d advocated for this end, conflicted or no.

He leans closer to her, speaking softly. “Soon enough your role in all this will be discovered, even if I don’t say a word. I’d advise you cross the lines as soon as you’re able. Major André wanted you safe, and I would grant him that last request.”

He turns to go, desperate to be away from here, but her voice draws him back.

“Major Tallmadge,” she says. “Why are you doing this?”

He faces her again, feeling utterly vulnerable, but feeling compelled to answer. “I was in Major André’s custody for a short time,” he tells her. “And though there was obviously a great deal of tension between us, he did something kind for me when he had the power to do the opposite. I would do the same now. I would hope that if this were me today—and it easily could have been—someone would do the same for the people I love.” He glances over at where Caleb waits for him, though Caleb doesn’t see him looking. Ben nods at Peggy before stepping away again.

“Walk back with me?” Ben asks as he approaches Caleb. “I need some air.”

Caleb smiles, nodding at him as they fall in step. Once they’re away from the crowd, Ben puts an arm around Caleb’s’ shoulders, Caleb’s arm slipping around Ben’s waist.

“Thank you for helping me…end it,” Ben whispers. “I know he wasn’t your favorite person.”

“Don’t like to see people suffer in the end like that,” Caleb replies, serious. “Besides, I knew you didn’t want it to be like that, either.”

They’re silent as they walk on, content in the quiet peace, the events of the morning sitting heavy in Ben’s chest. Ben stops after a few minutes, moving his arm from around Caleb’s shoulders, running a hand over the top of his head and feeling the sweat in the strands of his own hair despite the cool air.

“Ben?” Caleb asks, concerned. The lack of any of his nicknames indicates how serious he is, and Ben almost smiles.

“I just…” Ben searches for the words, curling his fingers against his palm as if he might draw them from thin air. “I believe so strongly in what we’re fighting for. That belief, this cause is such a part of me that I don’t think I could separate who I am from it. But sometimes….sometimes I feel the ghosts of this war chasing me. Losing men in the field. Nathan and Sackett dying. My entire unit being wiped out. What happened to me in that cellar. Even…even watching a man who was my opponent lose his life.”

Caleb reaches over, grasping Ben’s hand. “We’ve all got that sometimes, Benny boy,” he says, gentle and reassuring. “It doesn’t mean you believe any less, yeah? You’re a person. Even if you’re one of the people who believes in what we’re fighting for most, you need a break sometimes. Some days…well…some days you’re allowed to feel bad.”

Ben squeezes Caleb’s hand, catching the grin Caleb offers.

“Besides,” Caleb continues. “You’ve got me, eh? And we’ve got Annie and Abe. I think that will help keep us grounded and centered. It always has.”

Ben smiles wider. “Yes. I think you’re right. You’re right.”

And it’s true. It was, after all, four childhood friends from a small farm town who started a spy ring that had, in many ways, changed the war.

He’ll never stop believing in that.

Caleb puts his hand in the crook of Ben’s elbow. “All right?” he asks.

“All right,” Ben echoes, tapping the edge of Caleb’s hat fondly. “I’m with you.”


End file.
